


The Light is No Mystery

by masterofinfinities



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-War, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Ron Weasley, Character Development, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, F/M, Families of Choice, Not Epilogue Compliant, Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Secret Relationship, Slow Burn, The Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter) is Terrible, Theo is a Little Shit, Wizarding Politics (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:01:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 41
Words: 238,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24254056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masterofinfinities/pseuds/masterofinfinities
Summary: Defeating one man was simpler than ripping out the roots of a centuries-old belief system.For Hermione Granger, agreeing to work in the Mental Rehabilitation Center is the latest attempt at stitching her life back together. For Draco Malfoy, finishing his court-mandated rehab has just gotten a lot harder. Soon, Hermione and Draco find themselves in the middle of a storm of new politics, power struggles, and pureblood culture.But a growing connection between them might not only change the course of their lives, but also the future of the Wizarding World.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 926
Kudos: 839
Collections: The Dramione Collection, dm fanfics, dramione to read, literally god tier fan fics I cannot live without





	1. Need against Need, at cross-purposes

**Author's Note:**

> When I first started writing this story, it was a way of distracting myself from the growing chaos that is the world right now. Before I realized it, this story got away from me in all aspects, and became something much larger than I expected. Just like all my favorite things in life. 
> 
> Two important notes: this will be a multi-chapter story. I'm very much ahead in terms of completed chapters and I have this story almost entirely outlined, so don't be scared off by the fact it's a work in progress, I have no plans of making any reader wait for updates. 
> 
> Last but not least, this work wouldn't be half of what it is without the major help of my beta/editor @jeparlepasfrancais. She has been kindly sorting through my jumbled mess of words and ideas, picking at any plot holes and characterization issues and generally polishing this thing to a point it's actually worth being put out there. I have major appreciation for her, am eternally grateful and aware that I wouldn't be posting it without her help. 
> 
> I hope any person who comes across this story will enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it :)
> 
> More important memos can be found in the end notes.

“Imagine that the world is made out of love. Now imagine that it isn’t. Imagine a story where everything goes wrong, where everyone has their back against the wall, where everyone is in pain and acting selfishly because if they don’t, they’ll die. **_Imagine a story, not of good against evil, but of need against need against need, where everyone is at cross-purposes and everyone is to blame.”_ ** \- The Definitive Version, Richard Siken

* * *

When Hermione was just a little girl - _before she knew magic was something that existed outside of fairytales, that she was able to do it, that she was great at it, even_ – she knew about war through the stories her father told her before bed.

Her mother chastised him for telling her about war, certain that she was too young to hear of battlefields and hardships, but Hermione loved those times – after all, all wars came to a inevitable end - there were victors and losers, there were glories and failures, and there were villains, sure, but most importantly, there were always heroes.

That was what her dad told her, anyway.

It wasn’t until Hermione was much older, inhabiting world that didn’t want her but which she was so eager to be a part of _– so much so that she would dig her nails in the earth, blood staining her teeth, fight exuding from every inch of her skin_ – that she realized her dad had made a fool out of her.

There was no victory in war.

And, most importantly, there was a reason heroes mattered only during battles.

They had no idea how to live in the aftermath. 

_

_Night, gods, unbowed, unafraid, captain -_

“Miss Granger?”

Hermione looked up, her eyes settling on the face of a tall, balding man calling for her. 

She couldn’t remember his name. _How rude,_ she thought. She had spoken to him at least twice. 

“Miss Granger?” The man repeated, a patient smile on his face. _He was always so bloody patient, wasn’t he?_ Hermione remembered that about him.

She just didn’t remember what his name was. 

“Yes. Hi.” She finally responded, grabbing her purse from the seat beside her and standing up. Her legs shook a bit, but he didn’t notice. “I apologize, I was distracted. Lots of things to think about, I’ve been very busy.” She rambled on. _Night, gods, unbowed, unafraid, captain._ She cast a non-verbal warming spell on herself, hoping that she would stop shaking. 

“Are you sure you want to start today?” He smiled at her, looking almost patronizing. He gestured as he talked, like he had too much unreleased energy inside of his body. “The Ministry would be happy to postpone. We know that people such as yourself are always busy.”

Hermione almost laughed at that.

Truthfully, she hadn’t been doing much of anything lately.

Repairs to Hogwarts had been completed months ago. Ever since she lost that as an excuse and a distraction, she’d been mindlessly completing her everyday routine - _get up, make breakfast, look presentable -_ while looking for something worthwhile to do with herself. Then finding it, because she didn’t lack options and everyone wanted to claim the brains of The Golden Trio. And then, immediately giving up because she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She couldn’t bring herself to do anything.

This was her latest attempt.

“Oh, no,” She said, trying to sound uplifting. Hermione Granger was uplifting, wasn’t she? She was firm, stable, and cohesive. “I’m very excited about this opportunity. Harry told me about his visit the day the Center opened. I’m very impressed by the great work you’ve been doing.”

Hermione wasn’t actually lying. Harry _had_ told her about the Mental Rehabilitation Center when he visited. The Ministry of Magic set up the MRC to tend to those affected by the war, the ones who couldn’t quite get back to their normal routines, that couldn't easily pretend that tragedy hadn’t struck.

What she didn’t tell the man was that Harry went on for hours about how the Center was a political cover-up, a way for the Ministry to hide its incompetence, to pretend that the suicide rate hadn’t skyrocketed after Voldemort fell – to put a pretty bow on it, Harry said. _Look, we are taking care of you, see? We care about your broken hearts. Magic can fix that too._

“That’s wonderful! I’m glad you think so. Please do follow me,” he said, turning around to make his way forward in the long corridor. The bounce of his body as he walked reminded Hermione of Arthur Weasley. “Our staff here has been great at finding ways to soothe the worries of our wizarding community. As you are probably aware, most of our members are people that lost family and friends in the war and need a little help getting back on their feet.”

“Members?” Hermione asked.

“Patients,” he smiled, Hermione thought a little condescendingly. “We also work with those who lost their businesses or sources of income,” he continued. “The Ministry knows these more practical concerns can cause a great amount of stress.” He turned a corner and guided Hermione towards a set of stairs.

“I heard you also work with people on probation?” she asked, noticing that all of the walls in the Center were painted a bright, spotless white. _If they didn’t want people to feel like patients, they should put more of an effort into making the place look less like a mental ward_ , she thought. “War criminals?”

The man turned to look at her from the top of the stairs, “Yes, we do. “ He said gravely, the smile on his face slipping for the first time. “And it’s important that you mentioned this, Miss Granger. We debated greatly about where you would best fit at the Center. Of course we want you to feel comfortable as you work here, but someone of your caliber would be perfect for a more challenging position! You would be doing the Ministry a great service by joining the rehabilitation program,” he fired the words off quickly. 

Hermione stuttered, struggling to keep up with the man’s pace. “I thought I was going to take a more administrative role, Sir. I don’t have any training as an Auror or a Mind Healer.”

“That was the initial idea, but to be honest, Miss Granger-” he hesitated. “Most volunteers don’t want to work with that particular group. I’m sure you understand. They haven’t committed the most serious crimes; those went straight to Azkaban. But they aren’t always pleasant, and they aren’t happy to be here. From what we know of your service during war, someone of your character would be more than able to keep a handle on these people,” he finished, forcing the smile back on his lips.

 _Yes, of course._ Hermione thought. Of course, he would think that, wouldn’t he? Between the three of them, she was known as the steady one. The one who reasoned with Harry’s impulsive tendencies, and balanced Ron’s more temperamental personality. 

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate the vote of confidence, but I’m not sure-” Hermione started, only to get interrupted.

“We have no doubt this would be the perfect route to take, Miss Granger. We know you’ve been deeply involved with the repairs to Hogwarts the past couple of years, and we’re grateful for that. Take this as a next step in the great relationship you’ve been building with the Ministry,” he insisted.

Hermione stopped to consider the man’s words. She was reminded of the conversations she’d had with Harry, his insistence that the Ministry never seemed to be satisfied with what they had given them.

“Don’t you think my being a muggleborn would defy the purpose of the program? I don’t know why they would listen to me.”

“That’s why you’re perfect, Miss Granger, you are not just _any_ muggle-born witch. You are a war hero. Besides, the goal here is to see if those people are in the appropriate headspace to be released from their probation, so we need someone who won’t crumble under the pressure and will tell them what’s what. I don’t have illusions about changing their beliefs.”

Privately, Hermione rolled her eyes. Harry was right; it was apparent that the only thing the Ministry cared about was that people weren’t causing a scandal by killing themselves, or avenging Voldemort’s death.

The side-effects of chaos and destruction were merely a nuisance to be dealt with. It made sense that the Ministry had no particular concern about the outcome of these meetings. Clearly, they had no illusions about suddenly transforming pureblood supremacists into muggle-loving fools. It was politics, at the end of the day. 

_It wouldn’t be an easy task,_ she thought. There was still so much anger inside of her. But she was strong enough to look in the face of the people that fought in the side that wanted to kill her. The side that tried to. The side that succeeded in killing some of her friends. People that didn’t regret it, but had no choice but to pretend they did.

 _I’m empathetic, but rational_ , Hermione thought, _if anyone can separate reason from emotion, it’d be me._

Besides, she had promised Harry that she would try.

Lately, he had taken to looking at her as if the only thought looping through his mind was, _what happened to you? You were stronger than this. You were supposed to hold us all together._

She swallowed. “Well, I’m sure I can handle it.”

“That’s great,” the man beamed, seeming ready to move on with the conversation.

“What’s next?” she asked him, who was guiding her towards his office. Hermione took a quick look at the name engraved on the door. _Bart Hughman._ That was his name. 

“Let me grab the files of the group you’ll be shadowing today and I’ll give you a quick run-down.” Hughman said, pushing open the door. She didn’t follow him, watching as he grabbed a folder from its perch on top of several different documents. “You’ve visited the facility before, right?”

“Just once, when I came here to apply.”

“That’s unfortunate! We don’t have the time for a proper tour right now; there’s a meeting happening as we speak. But I’m sure soon you’ll get acquainted with the place.” He closed the door behind him and mentioned for her to follow him. “Currently, we’re handling a group of five wizards on probation for their actions during the war. As I’ve told you, none of them were charged with serious crimes, but all of them were involved with the dark side in one way or another.” He handed her the folder. “I don’t like to keep them in the program for long, you see, there’s a lot of resources that could be directed to people that actually need mental healing. But this group in particular has some members that are more of a difficult case.”

“How do you evaluate who is ready to be released?”

“We monitor them regularly with Aurors to ensure they’re not involved with anything illicit, and each of them has specific requirements for their probation that they have to meet. Our role is to get them to talk, to facilitate discussions about the wizarding world and how they are fitting in the community. We try to incorporate questions that help us evaluate where their heads are at, such as how they’re interacting with the people who fought against them, or how they’re responding to progressive Ministry policies against blood supremacy.”

She almost laughed. The Ministry wanted to have records that they tried to rehabilitate those people, even in this ineffective way, just so they could say they’ve done something in case it all went to shit again.

“So, you want them to swear they suddenly love muggle-borns and no longer believe in blood supremacy?” she joked. 

“More or less.” He shrugged.

Hermione opened the file in her hands, her eyes pausing at the names. _Millicent Bulstrode, Draco Malfoy, Angus Rookwood, Theodore Nott, Pansy Parkinson._

 _Interesting,_ she mused. She didn’t know this was one of the requirements of Malfoy’s probation. She’d known from reading the Daily Prophet over the years that the entire Malfoy family had been judged, Lucius Malfoy had been one of the first Death Eaters to be sent to Azkaban, but she hadn’t cared enough to know about the details. 

“I went to school with some of them.” She said quietly.

Ignoring her, Bart swept open the door in front of him. “Well, Miss Granger, we’ve arrived. The meeting is being conducted by Mind Healer Edina Cartwell. You’ll be working with her going forward. I’m sure she will greatly appreciate your help with this.”

“I’m glad to be of service,” she said, only a little apprehensively. 

Hermione was already regretting her decision. She should’ve entered the Auror Program with Harry and Ron, or accepted one of the many Ministry positions offered to her. She had countless opportunities to do literally anything else.

Yet, here she was. 

She knew that the years she spent helping with Hogwarts was borrowing time. But she didn’t understand why every time she thought of working towards her future she got a tight feeling in her chest, like she couldn’t breathe, like she’d start running away from all of this – like she’d never come back, if she did.

Hermione didn’t understand why she felt so fragile while everyone around her was so eager to go on as if nothing happened. To begin a new chapter of a life unmarred by bloodbath and darkness.

She didn’t understand why she couldn’t let go, and how easy it was for her to procrastinate on doing something about it.

How stupid that her inertia led her to this –

To waste her time contributing to this farce, by listening to the troubles of people she hated just so she could prove to Harry and Ron that the war hadn’t stolen the only parts of her that made her worth something.

_

Malfoy didn’t acknowledge her presence in the room.

By itself, this wouldn’t be a notable fact. But he was the only one who didn’t look up when she entered the room, or that didn’t sneer when Cartwell introduced Hermione to five people who already knew exactly who she was.

As the meeting settled in, Hermione’s eyes kept wandering back to Malfoy. He looked the same as he had always had – aristocratic and arrogant, holding his pointy nose high in the air, just as pale and platinum-blond as ever. She kind of hated everything about him, from the formal dark robes that contrasted against his skin to his hair, so bright it hurt to look at under the fluorescent lights of the room. There was no reason to be more annoyed by him than she was by any of the others, but she couldn’t control the spike of irritation that hit her whenever her eyes met his. 

She forced herself to focus on the group. Hermione watched as Edina Cartwell questioned the five former Death Eaters about their probation requirements: the work they’d been assigned, the volunteer projects they’d taken up. Each member responded in a more or less similar fashion – _I’ve been doing great, I’ve joined social groups mixed with people of different blood status, I don’t know how I ever thought these people were lesser beings, I’m completely regretful of everything I’ve done._

“It was recently approved that by next term, Muggle Studies will become a compulsory class for every year at Hogwarts. Have you given any thought to it?” Cartwell probed. 

“I haven’t seen anything about it.” Pansy Parkinson offered. 

“No? It was yesterday’s headline at The Daily Prophet. Kind of hard to miss it.” 

“I’m not there anymore, so I have no reason to think about what happens in that school,” the girl replied neutrally. 

“If you had a child, would that information stop you from sending them to Hogwarts when the time came?” The healer continued. 

Parkinson set her lips into a flat smile. “Every Parkinson has gone to Hogwarts since the school was founded,” she said smoothly.

Cartwell assessed the girl with a calculating look in her eyes. Hermione figured she’d keep probing at the girl, that she’d try to get something genuine out of her non-answer. When the healer changed the subject, asking the group another question, Hermione let out a sharp breath of annoyance.

Edina Cartwell was perceptive enough to notice when she was being tricked, that was obvious to Hermione, but she wasn’t sure if it was the woman’s naiveté that stopped her from being more aggressive, or if she was more patient than Hermione could ever hope to be. 

She couldn’t help but think the whole ordeal was less effective than the Healer realized - there was something particular mind-numbing about trying to make former Death Eaters talk about their feelings, like trying to push a boulder up a hill. 

_

And just like that, the meeting was over. As the members left the room, Cartwell let out a deep sigh that sounded like she had been holding in for hours. She stood up, turning to Hermione as she walked towards the door to close it.“Well, what do you think?” she asked.

Hermione paused, deciding if it would be smart to give the woman her honest opinion, but also realizing she didn’t care enough not to. If Cartwell decided that Hermione didn’t fit the job, she could go back to Harry and say that she had tried, but that it hadn’t worked for reasons out of her control. “Well,” Hermione started hesitantly, “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but I don’t see what the Ministry is trying to accomplish here. They’re a bunch of Death Eaters fibbing through their teeth...”

Cartwell shrugged, returning to her former seat beside Hermione. Without the group, the room they were in appeared even larger and drearier, better lit than any classroom in Hogwarts, but sparsely decorated: the room’s main feature was a semicircle of uncomfortable wooden chairs, with no rugs or posters to add a touch of uniqueness. “I imagine you wouldn’t,” said Cartwell. “Honestly, sometimes I’m not sure myself. And I’ve been here with the program since the beginning.”

Hermione arched a brow. “If you don’t believe in the mission of the program, how come you don’t move on to something else?” she muttered, hoping she didn’t offend her. 

Cartwell snickered. “I’m here because I _do_ believe in it. Sure, I’m just a low-level Mind Healer. I finished my apprenticeship at St. Mungo’s just a few months before the war peaked, and this job isn’t exactly what every Mind Healer dreams of.” She looked at Hermione, as if considering whether to level with her. “I did well at St.Mungo’s. I could’ve done something else to start my career, and when Director Hughman approached me about this job, I knew that there wasn’t really any altruism in it. It’s been over three years since the Battle of Hogwarts, but people are still scared, Hermione. Anyone with sense knows that getting rid of You-Know-Who wasn’t the happy ending. There are still many people who believed his ideas and who would be willing to fight for them. They didn’t disappear just because he’s gone.”

“Are you worried that Death Eaters are planning something?” Hermione asked, not sure if she really wanted to hear the answer. 

She’d been dreading a resurgence since the end, of course, the thought a persistent seed of fear that sometimes sent her into full blown panic. She didn’t know how many nights she’d spent on her bedroom floor, the shaking that never truly left overtaking her completely, her imagination running away with that thought. 

Cartwell seemed to consider her question with some seriousness. “The Department of Magical Law Enforcement doesn’t think so, from the information I’ve been able to gather,” she said thoughtfully, “and I personally don’t think so, not right now at least. They’re weak. Most of their higher-ranking members are still in Azkaban, and most of their money got confiscated by the Ministry. But what about later on? When people start to regain a sense of normalcy? I’d hope that the Ministry is doing everything it can to avoid that.”

Hermione blinked, “Is that what this program is supposed to be? I just don’t see how making Death Eaters pretend to love Muggle-borns-”

“It’s not the ultimate solution, but isn’t it a step, at least?” Cartwell interrupted. “It matters to me. I was the only one who would take the job. The Ministry gave it to me, even though I have no background working with people in the criminal justice system. They don’t seem to treat it as an important effort.” 

She paused, looking hard at Hermione. 

For the first time, Hermione noticed that she was young, probably only a few years older than her. Cartwell had a quality to her that Hermione could never imagine in herself, like she was already grounded and comfortable with who she was. It made Hermione envy her, even though she looked tired and dejected. 

“At this point they’ve locked everyone they can in Azkaban,” Cartwell continued, “and they could make more room to put people in there. But what about making sure they won’t escape? Besides, Azkaban just isn’t a practical solution long-term. The dolts at the Ministry must’ve figured that out, otherwise why would they be putting everyone who isn’t considered an immediate danger to society on house arrest, or in this program?” She laughed. “This program wouldn’t even exist if Hughman, albeit reluctantly, hadn’t agreed to oversee the project. No one else would. I have my theory that he did it as a political favor for someone in the Ministry, but I’m glad for it. We have to at least _try_ to make long-term changes in the minds of blood supremacists, such as the charming individuals you met earlier today. If we don’t, I don’t see much hope for the future of the wizarding community.”

“And I’m guessing you don’t share the same opinion as your higher-ups? Hughman told me you have to release them as soon as possible,” said Hermione.

“You are correct.” She smirked. “The Ministry doesn’t want us wasting too many billable hours on this. Hughman agrees. The Center is run mostly by volunteers, and none of them want to work on this kind of project. I’m doing the best that I can.”

Something stirred in Hermione. Cartwell made Hermione remember what she used to be like, before the war. The Hermione from that time had been so hopeful, so willing to believe that there was no way she could live in a world without fighting for peace. 

That Hermione had stubbornly refused to believe that evil was at the core of humanity. She had fought everything that didn’t align with her morals and ethical code, because she had to, because to do otherwise would betray her natural state of being. It was what had made her a Gryffindor. It was what had kept her from going insane while she was held down against the carpet of the coldest place on earth, screaming and shaking while she was marked like a pig ready for slaughter.

That feeling, that remembrance of strength, was probably what made her believe in Cartwell, even now, when Hermione felt so beaten up and tired that she couldn’t fathom how she would muster the energy to make a difference in this world. _All over again._

It terrified her that she even wanted to. 

But she was still Hermione Granger. And she still hasn’t learned how to quit.

“Well, what can I do to help?”

_Night, gods, unbowed, unafraid, captain._

  
  



	2. The Fear and the Greater Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was edited by the always amazing @jeparlepasfrancais. I'm always grateful.

"They weren’t animals but they looked like animals, enough like animals to make it confusing, meant something but the meaning was slippery: it wasn’t there but it remained, looked like the thing but wasn’t the thing—was a second thing, following a second set of rules—and it was too late: **_their power over it was no longer absolute_ ** . What is alive and what isn’t and what should we do about it? Theories: about the nature of the thing. And of the soul. Because people die. **The fear: that nothing survives. The greater fear: that something does.** " - The Language of the Birds, Richard Siken

* * *

Hermione flooed straight home after her conversation with Cartwell ended, a slight throb in her forehead promising that a migraine would greet her sooner rather than later. She sighed, setting her purse on top of her dresser before grabbing a Pain-Relief Potion out of her bathroom cabinet. She downed it quickly, wincing at the bitter taste before throwing herself at the bed, shoes still on her feet.

Alone, Hermione could admit to herself that she was intrigued by everything that Cartwell had told her. _She’s right_ , thought Hermione, propping her feet on a pillow, _as much as I wish it wasn’t true, Voldemort wasn’t the end of it._ It was something Harry had been trying to tell her for months.

Hermione gazed up at the ceiling. She still had nightmares about Harry’s face that day – pale, impossibly still – and about the bone-chilling realization that she was in a world where he wasn’t alive, no matter how short-lived that realization had been. 

She squeezed a pillow to her chest. Sometimes it was easier to pretend that they’d fought Harry’s battle, that they’d won Harry’s war – that everything that happened was result of the personal vendetta between a wizard who couldn’t admit defeat and the child who had no choice but to defy him. Defeating one man was simpler than ripping out the roots of a centuries-old belief system. 

Rolling on her side, Hermione berated herself for being so stupid. 

She knew that in her heart of hearts, a part of her was positive that if she changed one single mind, she’d be able to give life to a Hermione who died when she first stepped on the grounds of Hogwarts – when she realized that no matter how much she tried to be _better, cleverer, wittier_ , she’d still have to run twice the distance of her classmates to prove she belonged.

 _God_ , thinking about this was erasing any effect of the potion.

She sighed and sat up. That was more than enough pondering for the day. She was tired of arguing with herself – she had made a decision back in that room with Cartwell, anyway. _Harry’s going to love this_ , she thought, _I doubt that coaching Death Eaters was what he had in mind when he pushed me to do this. It’s probably better if I keep it to myself._

Hermione forced herself to get up and run a warm bath, figuring it would fix her headache and relax her enough to get to sleep. She should probably eat something, but the thought of cooking a meal made her shoulders sag. There was always tomorrow. 

Hermione stood outside of the bathroom, pressing on her eyelids as she listened to the soothing sound of the water running. When she opened her eyes, the spine of one of her favorite books grabbed her attention. _The Question of Cultural Identity,_ by Stuart Hall sat on the bookcase across from her _._ Humming under her breath, Hermione approached the bookshelf and lifted the book out of its place. She ran her eyes across the other Muggle books she had read over and over again, an idea slowly forming like a lightbulb above her head. 

_

Draco used his wand to light up a cigarette, taking a long drag before tapping the ash into a marble ashtray. The cig wasn’t doing much to quell his annoyance. It was a fair effort, but didn’t keep him mellow enough to stop him from snapping at the man in front of him. He’d been trying to control himself, lately – trying not to worsen an already shitty situation, and failing more often than not. 

As soon as the lawyer finished telling him about all the ways he was particularly fucked, Draco let out a deep sigh. As if he needed a reminder. “Listen, Stewart,” he said tightly, voice rough from the tobacco, “although I’m sure everyone is eager for an opportunity to throw me right beside my father in Azkaban, I have been judged and tried. So I need you to step up, do your job and quit letting the Ministry run right over me.” 

The man made a show of putting his hands up. “I’m just the messenger, Mr. Malfoy,” said Cadmus Stewart, Attorney at Magical Law. “You’re well aware of the terms of your probation. You know it’s well within the Ministry’s power to seize artifacts of your estate, if it wants to.”

A vein in Draco’s forehead throbbed. Being on his payroll should be enough reason for the lawyer to show him some respect, but he had learned long ago that not many people in wizarding Britain were inclined to be decent to the Malfoys. Which is why he preferred to deal with the lawyer instead of letting his mother do it. 

“Besides, what are those books to you, anyway?” Stewart continued, absentmindedly rubbing his expensive watch. Draco watched as he held his wrist up to the light, twisting it to make the jewels sparkle. _Lawyers._ “The Ministry has allowed your family to keep much more exclusive editions than the ones they’re taking now.” 

“It’s the principle of the thing,” said Draco, willing himself to keep his tone calm. “These books have been in my family for decades. What the hell could they possibly want with them?”

“That I do not know. What I _do_ know is that you have no choice but to let them, and while you’re at it, you should be glad they’re not asking for more money,” said the lawyer. 

Draco snorted, then took another drag of his cigarette. “Please,” he drawled. “They seized as much of our vaults as they were legally allowed to. They would’ve bled us dry if we hadn’t fought them on it.”

The lawyer shrugged, gathering up his pieces of parchments, “Draco,” he said as if pulling teeth, “this is almost over. You are doing everything required of you. Get through the stupid rehab program, keep your nose clean, and then you’ll be free. And then _I’ll_ be free to focus on clients that give me less of a headache. Alright? Don’t make this harder on your mother.”

Draco responded with a two finger salute. The overpaid lawyer shook his head, poorly concealing his distaste. Draco watched as he walked to the fireplace, threw in a pinch of green powder, and flooed out of the manor as quickly as he had flooed in. 

Draco wasn’t particularly upset about the Ministry taking the books. They were old texts, some of them informal guidelines to acceptable pureblood behavior: sufficiently generic as to avoid embarrassing the Malfoys personally, yet sufficiently racist to enrage the average wizard. 

_But it was the principle of the thing._ It irked him that the Wizengamot felt entitled to take his private property as it saw fit, never satisfied with what it’d already gotten – from galleons to land. _I need a drink_ , he thought, craving a shot of firewhiskey, _if I wouldn’t be mad at myself later._ Self-control. Even if he was going through two packs of cigarettes a day. 

Before he could weigh the merits of lightning up another one, Draco was distracted by emerald green flames and the lanky body of his best friend stepping out of the fireplace. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Nott?” Draco called out without bothering to disguise his annoyance. “Don’t make me put the wards up again.”

The ill-dressed wizard didn’t bother with an answer, throwing himself in the same squashy armchair that the lawyer had just vacated, a familiar smirk fixed on his pale face. “Why are you so pissy already? I’ve just arrived.”

“Probably because you think you can barge in here anytime without asking for permission.” 

Theo chuckled, “Aw, I’d be offended if I didn’t know that without me you’d be left to brood all day in this house.” He spread his long arms across the back of the chair. “Should I start this conversation by asking, _again_ , when are you moving out?”

Draco licked his lips, “I don’t know, probably when mother doesn’t need me around anymore,” he replied. _Merlin knows when that’s going to be_. 

“And you think Narcissa’s suddenly going to give you her blessing to go live your life?” Theo chuckled. Draco couldn’t tell if he heard scorn or pity in the sound. Probably a mix of both.

“Don’t call my mother Narcissa, Nott,” said Draco.

“All I’m saying is that if you keep waiting for her to tell you she doesn’t need you anymore, you’re going to spend your entire life with her peering over your shoulder.” He added, “It’s not hard to see this place is wearing you down.” 

Draco rolled his eyes, “Don’t be dramatic, it’s not that bad. And it’s not like I live by her skirt. There’s enough space in this place that I see her only when I want to. I’ve told you a thousand times to leave it alone.” 

“If you say so,” said Theo, knowing better than to press, “That wasn’t why I came here, anyway. I’ve been trying to talk to you about Granger for days now.”

“What about her?” Draco asked in a bored voice. He had left his required meeting as soon as he was allowed to, last week. “I don’t like to make it a habit of sticking around after those meetings. Bad for my head.”

“Aren’t you even a _little bit_ curious about why she’s suddenly working with Cartwell?” said Theo, reaching forward to poke at Malfoy. 

“Sod off,” Draco swore, swatting at his hand. “I think it’s sad, really. You’d think as stuck up and sure of herself as she is, she’d be doing something more worthwhile with her time.” He took out a cig from the packet in front of him.

Theo hummed in agreement, holding his hand out for the cigarette, which Draco gave him, before getting one for himself. “I did wonder about that,” Theo said thoughtfully, the unlit stick hanging from his lower lip. “But there’ve been rumors for months that she went a bit _loony_ after the Battle. You know, that she was depressed or whatever.”

Draco arched a brow.“Yeah? That’s not what the papers are saying.”

“With the way The Daily Prophet is up the Golden Trio’s arse? Please,” cackled Theo. “If Granger were dying of dragon pox, we wouldn’t know it until she was six feet under. My sources say otherwise. Don’t you think it’s strange that she’s not at the DMLE with Potter and Weasley? Or at a job that was most certainly offered to her at the Ministry? Literally, any job would be better than that one.” Draco laughed.

“People have barely caught a sight of her these past few months,” continued Theo, taking the cigarette out of his mouth so he could twirl it like a baton. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think she had gone back to her Muggle family.”

Draco gave him a lopsided grin. “As if she’d give anyone the satisfaction of knowing she’d given up,” he said.

“I always felt like she had a bit of a complex,” Theo agreed. “Kind of sad, when you think about it.”

“Anyway, I thought she was at Hogwarts.” said Draco, remembering a newspaper headline he’d read. “If anybody was going to sign up for extra school, it’d be her.”

“Oh, were you considering joining her?” said Theo, wiggling his eyebrows. 

“Like you’d ever catch me dead in that place again.” He shuddered at the thought. 

“I heard that too,” Theo continued. “Rumor says she stayed there for quite awhile after the repairs were finished. I mean, no surprise, a swot like her. But now she’s working at this sodding rehab program? Some might consider that a downgrade.” 

“I know you fancy yourself a gossip, but exactly why are you so interested, Nott?” Draco spat. “Want me to ask her out for you?”

“That’s low,” Theo laughed. “Just because I’m better with the ladies than you are.”

“Honestly, who the fuck cares about what Granger does?” continued Draco. “The last thing I want to worry about is what those bloody Gryffindors are up to now that I’m not obliged to live around them.” 

“Don’t be a fool, Malfoy,” said Theo easily. “I’m interested because it affects me. And you, for that matter. Or have you forgotten that you’re a proud card-carrying member of the little club she’s now in charge of?” 

Draco scowled and took a drag of his cigarette, exhaling the smoke from the corner of his lips.

“I can see by your face that you _hadn’t_ remembered that,” Theo pointed out, furrowing his brows. “If you thought we’d had it bad with that insufferable woman Cartwell, how do you think it’s going to be with bloody _Granger_ coming in with a mission and a plan and actual power to meddle in our lives?” he said, tone more aggravated than before. “If you think this won’t at least annoy the hell out of you, think again, my friend.”

Draco threw his head back. “Ah, _fuck._ ”

_

In the following weeks, Hermione established a stable routine that reminded her of the one she had at Hogwarts, in what seemed like a lifetime ago. 

She woke up by seven every morning, and only wasted a couple of minutes letting her mind and body release the tension left from whatever dream she had during the night. Going to the Center when there weren’t any meetings wasn’t a necessity, but a commitment she made to herself. 

“Are you enjoying your time here?” Cartwell had asked when they met up on the way to a meeting. 

_I’ve had worse,_ she thought, and then said, “It’s been definitely interesting.”

The meetings always left her feeling raw. Hermione couldn’t recall a time in her life when she felt like she wholeheartedly fit in, not even when it was just her and her boys. But being around the Slytherins so often brought back her feelings of inadequacy, their opinions on her clear in their expressions. 

She took her mind off of it by observing. This was also a huge part of her routine -- watching as the former Death Eaters lied their way out of making any real progress, and as Cartwell let them. 

“Do you feel censored?” Cartwell asked the group. “There has been a decrease in the publication of books about Pureblood culture since the Ministry announced the restrictions.” Her eyes swept across the room. “That must bother you.” 

“If the Ministry says it’s for the best, who am I to think otherwise?” Nott offered, crossing one leg over the other. “What the Ministry says, goes.” 

“Your families aren’t known for letting the Ministry act without much intervention.” Cartwell noted. 

“We are living in a new era, isn’t that what you’ve been telling us?” said Malfoy, referring to the newest Witch Weekly headline. 

Cartwell had given each of them a copy in the previous meeting, watching as they tried to look indifferent to a photo of Shacklebolt and Harry walking down the hallways of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. 

“You don’t seem to be having a hard time accepting these changes at all,” Cartwell said, addressing the whole room. 

“We’re Slytherins, Mrs. Cartwell. We know better than to insist on pointless things.” Malfoy’s arrogance was audible in each word. 

“I remember telling you before to call me _Miss_ Cartwell, Mr. Malfoy,” she said, a gentle smile on her lips. 

“It must’ve slipped my mind.” Malfoy answered, waving his hand in dismissal. 

When Hermione wasn’t seething at the Slytherins’ indifference, she was researching. She read up on Nietzsche, Foucault and Bauman, then brushed the dust off her dad’s old biology textbooks from dental school. She poured over journals on the Second World War, drawing parallels that made her head spin. 

Most nights, she was awake when Harry got home late -- he didn’t ask what she was doing, but he’d began to smile at her again.

_

Cartwell was more resistant to her ideas than she’d anticipated. 

Hermione knew she’d convince her, whether because she realized Hermione was right or because she’d tired her down, whichever came first. She’d prefer to have a positive endorsement from the start. It would make things smoother. Merlin knew she’d have to fight her way through with everyone else. 

“And why can’t you apply your… methods, with me?” said Cartwell. “I do trust your judgment, even if we don’t know each other that well, after everything you’ve done for the wizarding community, how could I not? You’re a hero!” she said, throwing her hands up. “But I’ve been with this group for a while now, and we have a good rhythm going.”

Hermione narrowly avoided rolling her eyes, trying to rein in her lack of tact. She’d sat in enough meetings to know no one took them seriously. Perhaps the healer’s gentle coddling worked with the traumatized people who actually needed to be there, but the five former Slytherins could run circles around her any time of the day. 

There was nothing being accomplished. Hermione knew they weren’t being sincere with what they reported, but Cartwell didn’t seem to spot their insidious behavior, or believed with time she’d make a miraculous breakthrough. If Hermione was going to take this task as a responsibility, she wanted to ensure she’d at least make them _think_.

“They won’t take me seriously if they see that I’m not in control.” Hermione argued. “I’m not a Mind Healer, Edina, I’m not pretending to be, which is why I have no business trying to work with actual patients here, _you_ do. But these people?” She licked her lips before continuing. “They’re _not_ patients, and they’re _not_ victims. They’re _criminals_ , and honestly, they are _racists_ of varying degrees -- all of which are bad. I’ve spent my entire life dealing with people like them. This is no different.” 

Cartwell sighed, sipping her tea. “Like I said, it’s not like I don’t trust you. Frankly, I’m just worried you’ll think of this as a battle and charge in there with an attitude that will only make them more resistant.” 

Hermione exhaled through her nose, willing herself to suppress the sarcastic voice in her head that wanted to reply, _well, it’s not like your method is working, either._

Measuring her tone, she continued. “Obviously, I am here to help you. You can ask me to do anything or prohibit me from doing anything, and I will do it with a smile on my face and a weekly report in my hands. You can fire me from the program whenever you want to. But if I’m going to be here, I would appreciate some room to try.”

Cartwell stared at Hermione, studying her face as if she was trying to read her thoughts. In response, Hermione squared her shoulders. She hoped her face looked sufficiently serious and confident. 

“Well, I do want more time to work with the trauma patients.” said Cartwell after some time. “Starting next week, I’ll let you handle the meetings as you see fit, Hermione. But if I feel like this is going somewhere I don’t agree with, I’ll stop it immediately, you understand?”

Hermione bit down the smirk of victory threatening to take over her face. She nodded. “Of course. I’ll be off then, assuming you don’t need anything else from me.” Cartwell shook her head. “And I assume I’ll start this Friday’s meeting?”

“I will be there to announce the change in plans, but yes, you can take it from there.” 

“Great. I’ll see you then.” Hermione stood up from her chair, grabbed her purse and made her way towards the door. 

“Hermione,” Cartwell called out. Hermione paused and turned back in her direction. “Let’s keep your weekly reports between us, shall we? There’s no sense in bothering director Hughman with something he doesn’t particularly care about, otherwise he’d have to formally notify the Ministry, and there’s certainly no point in causing that sort of hassle, don’t you agree?”

Hermione forced a smile. “Of course, I understand,” she said, and waved goodbye before leaving the office.

As she walked back through the maze of offices and people, Hermione couldn’t help but feel her enthusiasm diminish at the thought of only getting partial permission. She figured that Cartwell wouldn’t be willing to go to bat for Hermione’s methods until she saw that they worked. Until then, it was better to keep her ideas under wraps.

But when she ignored her overbearing mind for half a second, she recognized the rare tingling of satisfaction filling up her chest. It felt as foreign as the reflection that stared back at her in the mirror most days, blinking at her like a stranger. 

Hermione felt revitalized. She was happy to have a new responsibility to hold her accountable, to give her a reason to get her out of bed when her body felt as heavy as a bag of concrete. The knowledge she had her work cut out for her was encouraging, in the most basic way anything could be. _Friday_ , she thought, catching her reflection in a mirrored corridor. Unlike usual, this time she didn’t look away. 

Hermione entered the lounge in the staff area of the Center, and settled in the corner she had claimed for herself earlier that day. From her position, she had a clear view of the large poster framed on the door. _“The MRC is Golden Trio Supported!”_ said the poster at the top. Below the slogan was a cartoon of Hermione, Harry, and Ron standing in front of the building, each of them moving to give a thumbs up. She’d bet that sooner rather than later they’d make them take a photo to replace the drawing.

 _Yet the Golden Girl wasn’t important enough to get an office_ , she thought sardonically. The lounge was crowded, suspiciously fragrant, and always freezing. Hermione cast a warming charm on herself, rubbing her arms to stop the shivering from coming on. After she stopped shaking, Hermione pulled out the file from her bag. 

She had studied the contents enough to memorize them. Curiously, major details about probation and the steps of the program appeared nowhere in the documents. It showed a lack of oversight that surprised her. 

Theo Nott had been charged with providing material support to the Death Eaters and for handling illegal magical artifacts. She was sure whatever amount he had to pay in fines would’ve made her wince. But the reason he had been admitted to the counseling program wasn’t actually clear. In fact, it wasn’t clear for any of them. Parkinson had been charged with the use of Unforgivables during the Battle of Hogwarts but hadn’t been prosecuted for any major involvement with the war prior to that. As part of her sentence, she had to turn her wand for inspections at the Aurors office. Millicent Bulstrode hadn’t been charged with anything. Hermione got the impression that Bulstrode had been merely a pawn that fed Voldemort information about the school through her family. The more Hermione read her file, the more a feeling of wrongness grew within her, but she couldn’t pinpoint the reason why. 

She wasn’t familiar with Angus Rookwood, given that he had been several years ahead of her at Hogwarts. Based on the thin file in front of her, Hermione could only guess he hadn’t done enough harm to face a trial or be thrown in Azkaban alongside his brother, Augustus. But it was clear he had been deep in Death Eater business before and during the war. 

She finally picked up Draco Malfoy’s file. Hermione had always figured that the influence his family still held within the Wizengamot had helped him avoid being locked up. Still, it was interesting to see Malfoy had gotten the most rigorous sentence of everyone in the group. The Ministry had seized most of his family’s estate to fund war repair efforts, along with many of their magical artifacts. Not to mention that Malfoy had his activities heavily monitored by the Aurors office.

She clicked her tongue, checking every document for anything she might’ve missed. 

Her eyes paused on Malfoy’s file once again – it wasn’t like she felt sorry for him, there was no possible way the rough time he’d have for a few years was enough consequence for his actions, but the way his sentence seemed to circle back to money made her uncomfortable. 

The time she spent pouring over the files made her think about how she’d spent most of her life planning everything she could accomplish from inside of the Ministry. The more she knew, the more the entire structure seemed like a match of chess where the pieces didn’t move according to the rules of the game. It made Hermione even more confused about her role in all of it -- her certainties fractured into pieces that no longer fit, and she kept trying and failing to rearrange the full picture. 

She sighed and put the file back in her purse. She rooted through the bag until she found the book she’d been buried in for the last week or so. Harry had turned up with it after she mentioned her interest in knowing more about the Sacred Twenty-Eight and pureblood traditions. He’d said he knew someone in the Aurors office who had access to books like that, and she didn’t ask any more questions. 

She stifled a yawn as she turned a page. According to Chapter 4, purebloods believed that reproducing with Muggles or Muggleborns would produce generations of wizards and witches with gradually weaker magic. Over time, their magic would become so weak that it would fade away. By accepting Muggleborns and Half-Bloods, purebloods believed that they would risk the extinction of the wizarding world. Hermione scoffed out loud. Naturally, the book didn’t address the virtual lack of scientific research that supported those ideas, or the absence of physiological differences between muggles and wizards. 

After a good hour or so, Hermione marked her page and stood up, nestling the book under one arm and putting her purse over her other shoulder. Still thinking over what she’d read, Hermione walked in the direction of the MRC’s Floo network, deciding which passages she wanted to include in her notes for friday. 

She was so distracted by her thoughts she didn’t notice what was in front of her until she felt herself walk straight into a tall figure by the fireplaces. Hermione rapidly lost her footing, falling backwards while the book on her arm tumbled to the floor in a thud. She almost followed it, but an arm reached out and snatched her wrist, keeping her upright.

“Watch where you’re going, Granger,” the figure snapped. She looked up into the pointy face of Draco Malfoy. _Great_. Malfoy looked annoyed, but Hermione was pretty sure she caught a faint hint of amusement in his eyes. “Maybe you’re used to people throwing themselves out of your sacred path, but I’m sure even the barn you were raised in taught you that it’s rude to run into people.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes and shook her wrist free from his bony fingers. “Whatever, Malfoy. I was distracted. Rest assured the last thing I want is to get anywhere close to you.” 

“And what about an apology?” Malfoy huffed. “I stopped you from embarrassing yourself, and I could’ve been hurt if I hit the floor.”

“I’m more embarrassed being seen breathing next to you,” she snapped, bending down to pick up her book. “If I had wanted to hurt you, stumbling would not have been my chosen method. Do you want an engraved thank you note for showing the bare minimum of decency? You better find yourself a seat, because you’ll be waiting a long time for it.” 

“Don’t bother. Next time I’ll be sure to let you hit the floor, you clearly belong on it,” he said rudely. Hermione _didn’t_ have the time for this. Adjusting the bag on her shoulder, she scoffed and elbowed past him towards the fireplaces. His bony hand shot out and grabbed her shoulder. “Where did you get that book?”

Hermione turned around to tell him off, but was startled by the intensity in his eyes. 

“None of your business,” she said, trying to shake his arm loose. “Get out of my way.” He took a step closer, his bigger body blocking her way forward. “Excuse me?”

“I asked you a question,” he snapped, the entitlement in his words making her bristle. 

“And I said it’s none of your business,” her voice rose in anger. “I don’t know where you got the idea I’m obliged to answer you, but you better get out of my face before I hex you straight out of this building.”

He chuckled humorlessly. “I’m not scared of you or your threats, Granger. You probably don’t know this, given how little you’re aware of, but there are only about twenty-eight copies of that particular book in the world. I merely find it interesting a muggleborn like yourself would be in possession of one.” 

She arched a brow. “Aw, shucks,” she said with sarcasm. “Are you actually scared by the idea of someone like me getting hold of your little pureblood bible?”

Draco barked a laugh, stepping closer to her. Hermione automatically straightened up. She didn’t think that Malfoy would be stupid enough to try to anything at a government building, but then again, she trusted him as far as she could throw him. 

“I know you must be getting a thrill of superiority right now, spending two days a week looking down at us from your moral high horse, but I can assure you that you are no more impressive now than you were at Hogwarts, Granger,” he sneered at her “Get your insolence out of your voice when you speak to me.”

“You're the one in my space, you git. I’ll speak to you how I see fit, and I don’t have to be standing on any high horse to do it.” 

Hermione pressed the book tighter to her chest, squaring her shoulders. She tilted her chin up just enough to get him to narrow his eyes -- she could give him insolence, if she wanted to. Malfoy opened his mouth to respond, but Hermione didn’t give him a chance, stepping to his left before he could block her again. 

She kept her chin lifted as she power-walked her way down the corridor. She could feel his eyes burning a hole at the back of her head, but didn’t give in the urge to glance at him. He didn’t try to stop her again.

Hermione turned in the direction of the Floo network. She was annoyed with herself for letting Malfoy get a rise out of her. She wasn’t surprised that he was as unpleasant as he’d ever been. He had a way of pushing her buttons just the right way to get her seething mad. She knew that everything he did was on purpose, which somehow made the interaction more humiliating, like every time she was rankled, he scored a point. 

If he reacted like this when they’d barely bumped into each other, Hermione could only imagine the fit he’d throw when he realized she was taking over the program. 

_ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter! All titles for this story are taken from Richard Siken's poems.
> 
> I'd love to know what you're thinking so far :)


	3. To the Moon, Over Jerusalem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brings in the first appearance of the group my clever beta @jeparlepasfrancais named 'Emerald Square', now it's stuck in my head and I refuse to call the Draco-Theo-Pansy-Daphne combo anything but that. As always, grateful for her work editing this. I hope you all like it!

**"We've been to the moon and we're still fighting over Jerusalem** . Let me tell you what I do know: I am more than one thing, and not all of those things are good. The truth is complicated. It's two-toned, multi-vocal, bittersweet, (...) I am sad and angry and I want everyone to be alive again. I want more landmarks, less landmines. **I want to be grateful but I'm having a hard time with it.** " - Black Telephone, Richard Siken 

* * *

Hermione paused in front of the room’s door, her thick brown hair tied up in a knot on top of her head. She pressed a palm to her fluttering stomach. 

Without warning, a tiny hand settled on her shoulder, startling her. “Are you okay?” asked Cartwell, a patient smile plastered on her face. “If you’re unsure, we can always-” 

“I’m sure” Hermione interrupted. 

“I wouldn’t blame you if you changed your mind.” Cartwell said, her eyes flashing with compassion. 

“I can do this, Edina, you don’t have to worry.” Hermione assured her.

“I know you can.” Cartwell agreed, then pushed the door open. As soon she did, five heads turned in their direction. 

The slytherins were scattered around the room, Bulstrode and Parkinson to one side, while Nott and Malfoy were in the opposite corner. Rookwood stood like a lone wolf near a window. 

“Good morning.” Cartwell greeted, “Please, find yourselves a seat. I have news to share with you.”

The group sat on the chairs closest to them, not bothering to greet Cartwell back. Hermione bit back a huff of annoyance at the rudeness. 

“Hermione and I had an enlightening conversation this week,” Cartwell started, intertwining both her hands. “This program isn’t the only initiative in the Center that requires my attention. Because of that, we figured it’d be best if I channeled my energy on those.” She paused to glance at their faces, her lips flattening in disappointment when she didn’t get a reaction. “You don’t need to worry, though! You’ll be left in the capable hands of Hermione Granger. That’s an honor I’m sure you won’t take for granted.” 

Hermione pinned her eyes to the back of the woman’s head. If she was irked by Cartwell’s compliment, she imagined the group would be much more. 

“My office will be open in case any of you need me, of course. Let’s make the most of this opportunity, yeah?” She finished, then turned to smile encouragingly at Hermione. “Good luck,” whispered Cartwell, and closed the door behind her. 

For a moment, Hermione stood facing the wall. _Well, here I am_ , she thought. _How bad can it be, really?_ She listened to herself inhale, and exhale a deep breath. _Here we go_.

Hermione turned to face the room. Five Slytherins looked back at her. To her surprise, they wore neutral expressions, as if they had expected Cartwell’s announcement all along. 

It was unnerving. 

Hermione steeled herself, trying to bury any feeling of uneasiness deep within her. _I’ve been through too much to be afraid of boredom and being disliked_ , she thought. She knew where the power lay, and it wasn’t in their hands. 

“As you know, I’ve been shadowing Cartwell for weeks now,” she started, pausing to see if she’d get a response. “I’m not impressed by you.” 

“Pardon?” said Parkinson, her face twisted in confusion. Her pug-like features, framed by locks of dark hair, had softened somewhat with age. But the contempt in her eyes, same as always, dulled any trace of prettiness. 

“I said I’m not impressed by you.” said Hermione. “What exactly do you lot plan to accomplish by going through the program like this? You can’t just _get away_ with court mandated rehab,” she said. 

“Who are you to say I’m not invested in this?” asked Parkinson. She looked over her shoulder at the others. “We’re all here, aren’t we?” 

“I’ve been watching all of you,” said Hermione firmly, “and I know deceit when I see it.” 

“Calling us out seems rather counterproductive.” said Malfoy, acknowledging her presence for the first time. He sat relaxed in his seat, as if he were a visiting dignitary who she had come to entertain. “It doesn’t make us likely to do your bidding.” 

“Being nice hasn’t been working out, either,” said Hermione, trying to avoid criticising Cartwell. “The way I see it, you have two options: you can go along with whatever I propose and earn the chance to be released from this program in the foreseeable future,” she continued, forcing herself not to fiddle with her hands, “or you can resist, and extend your time here indefinitely.” _Well, I’ll have to talk to Cartwell about that_ , she thought to herself.

“And what are you proposing, exactly?” Malfoy asked, a smirk on his face. 

“First of all, I need all of you to stand up,” she commanded, hoping they couldn’t hear her voice shake. 

The group didn’t react immediately. Parkinson shot a questioning glance at Malfoy, who ignored it. He looked at Hermione, smiling, challenging her to ask again. 

Hermione waited a couple of beats before repeating herself. “I’m not aware that any of you have a hearing impairment. I asked you to stand up.” 

The room was silent. For a moment, Hermione wondered what she would do if she couldn’t get them to listen. Would she have to threaten them? Or god forbid, call Cartwell back in? To her surprise, Theo Nott stood up. He brushed a curl of hair from his forehead and looked up at her with an expression she couldn’t read. 

Malfoy crossed his arms. Hermione watched as Nott walked over to Malfoy’s chair and nudged it with the tip of his boots. Malfoy looked up at him, jaw clenched, before standing up as well. 

And just like that, the rest of the group followed suit.

“Well?” Malfoy snapped. 

Hermione raised her wand hand and pointed it at the group. 

“What are you doing?” Parkinson said nervously.

“Oh, please, I’m not going to do anything to you.” 

Hermione waved her wand in a smooth motion, sending the chairs flying. The Slytherins jumped out of the way as the chairs rearranged themselves in a neat row in front of her. “Now you may sit.” 

Hesitantly, the group sat. Nott chose a seat right in the middle. Ignoring him, Malfoy chose a chair on the far left side of the room. Parkinson quickly followed him, dragging Bulstrode along with her. Rookwood was the last to find a seat, slouching over to the remaining chair on the right side of the room. 

“Are we here to fulfill your teacher-student fantasies, Granger?” Malfoy gibed, earning laughs from across the room. 

“Of course not,” Hermione replied in a neutral voice. “Not that I can’t think of a thing or two I could teach all of you. But this isn’t a class, I’m here to have a conversation.”

“Excuse me?” Bulstrode spoke for the first time, her voice an octave too high. “Could you get to the point?”

“Gladly.” Hermione grabbed a chair for herself, then sat down, keeping her posture straight.“I spent the last week with a fascinating book,” she said, lifting her wand to conjure its title from thin air, the words flying in front of her. ‘ _The Wizarding Sacred Society’s Handbook’_. “Have you read it?” she asked them. 

“Have you?” snapped Parkinson. “I know for a fact that _that_ book is not for sale.” 

Hermione lowered her arm and the words vanished. She stood up and walked over to her bag, reaching inside. 

“What, this book?” said Hermione, holding it in the air for the group to see. Parkinson inhaled sharply. “I have my ways.” Hermione said. “To be truthful with all of you, I’ve been asking myself for years how people who consider themselves so evolved could repeat ignorance with such ease. But if your parents have been reading you bedtime stories out of books like this, I think I understand where it comes from.” 

Rookwood lifted his head to stare at her. “It’d be smart to think carefully about what you’re saying, mudblood,” he said coldly. “Someone of your kind can’t understand old magic, certainly not enough to talk about it to us, and some of us are just waiting for a reason to snap.” Hermione suppressed a shiver. In his words, she heard the sort of deep-seeded hatred that reminded her of a white crystal chandelier and drips of blood on her skin. 

_Night, gods, unbowed, unafraid, captain._

She fought the urge to tug at her sleeve. 

“Calling me that word qualifies as an offense under the Magical Equality Act of 1999, Rookwood. And I doubt threatening a MRC’s staff member will help your release from probation,” she said in a pleasant voice. “I don’t recall you being so abrasive when Cartwell was here.” 

“Cartwell isn’t a mudblood,” said Rookwood. Unlike Malfoy and Nott, he didn’t seem to be even entertained by the situation. His hand gripped his knee tightly, and his jaw was clenched. 

“Too bad for her,” said Hermione with a smile. Nott laughed. “Now, if we can continue, have any of you heard about the theory of evolution?” 

“I haven’t heard about it, but if we’re talking about evolution, I can assure you wizards are more evolved than muggles,” said Theo, leaning back in his seat. “Does saying that count as an offense, too?” 

“How can you be so sure?” Hermione countered, ignoring his sarcasm. “That book specifically states that wizards who reproduced with muggles would evolve into generations with gradually weaker magic. Yet here we are, a hundred years after that book was written, and with more than enough generations to falsify that claim.”

“It’s common sense, Granger.” Malfoy said, looking straight into her eyes. “The theory you mentioned talks about survival of the fittest, doesn’t it?” 

“That’s a common misconception, actually,” said Hermione. “Survival of the fittest is mostly a catchphrase. The basic premise is that as long as a species is able to reproduce and pass on their genes, that species is good enough to survive. It doesn’t mean having magical genes makes you stronger, or more evolved.” 

“Well I can name, off from the top of my head, a hundred situations in which wizards are more fit to survive than muggles,” said Malfoy. “Wizards can do anything _that_ muggles can, easily. And we can do things that muggles could never accomplish, like healing people, or taming magical creatures.”

Hermione chuckled. “If only you knew what Muggles are capable of.”

“It’s clear to me why we’re having this discussion,” said Bulstrode. “Muggleborns haven’t been taught to respect magic. They don’t connect to it the way we do.” 

“That’s another old chestnut, isn’t it?” said Hermione. “That muggleborns can’t master true, old magic, like purebloods do?” 

“It’s a proven fact,” said Rookwood, tapping his fingers against his knee. 

“Really?” she said, stopping in front of Rookwood. “Lily Potter was a muggleborn, and her magic was powerful enough to stop Voldemort himself. That’s how Harry survived to defeat him seventeen years later.”

The group was momentarily silenced. Even Malfoy, who had been more forthcoming than she expected, seemed to hesitate. From his corner of the room, he threw a subtle glance at the rest of the group. “The Dark Lord was a half-blood,” he said nonchalantly.

The other Slytherins snapped their heads to look at Malfoy. Hermione wondered if Voldemort’s blood status was still scandalous in pureblood circles, even after his death. 

“Yet you accepted him as your lord,” said Hermione, turning towards Malfoy. Her gaze bored into him. “Shouldn’t he be inferior to you?”

“The Dark Lord was the heir of Salazar Slytherin,” said Parkinson in a shrill voice. “This conversation is pointless.”

 _It’s almost like Death Eater blasphemy_ , Hermione chuckled to herself. _If they’ll talk like this after a little pushing, it’s clear they haven’t been pressured enough_.

“So where do you guys draw the line?” asked Hermione. “Can you have just a bit of muggle blood? Or do you have to be a psychopath to earn that privilege?” 

Parkinson stood up, her cheeks burning red. “I’m not staying here for this,” she said. “You can write that up in my file. I don’t give a shite.” 

She didn’t wait for a response before fleeing the room, the sound of the door slamming shut echoing in the now silent room. 

Hermione stared at the closed door for several seconds. At last, she turned to look at the faces in front of her. Each one of them displayed varying levels of irritation. The look in Rookwood’s eyes made Hermione itch to grab her wand. Theo looked uncomfortable, suddenly finding the floor the world’s most fascinating invention. Bullstrode seemed to consider following her friend, eyes moving back and forth between Hermione and the door.

Malfoy -- Malfoy she couldn't read.“I guess we can continue next week,” said Hermione. “But I have an assignment for you.”

“Are you completely sure this isn’t a student-teacher fantasy, Granger?” quipped Malfoy. 

Hermione ignored him. “I want all of you to pick something you were taught about muggles that you aren’t too sure about. It can be something that seemed ridiculous to you, or even disgusted you.”

“Who do you think we are, Granger? We’re not going to give you more ammunition to use against us,” said Bulstrode, who was already standing to leave. 

“And what would be the point of me reporting something I’ve asked you to do?” said Hermione. Internally, she cursed herself for being too straightforward. They would never believe that she was being sincere. 

“I doubt that you’re here because you want to help us out,” said Nott.

“I’m not,” she laughed. Nott looked startled. “I’ve known most of you since I was eleven years old, and you have never afforded me any kindness, I’m not inclined to do so, either.” She stopped to look at the group. “But I’m not petty, and I’m going to do my job here properly. If you cross the line and threaten me like Rookwood did? Then don’t doubt you’ll face consequences. Otherwise, I’m not wasting my time setting up traps for you to fall in.” 

Unwillingly, she caught herself looking at Malfoy from the corner of her eye. She didn’t know him well enough to filter through his actions and get to the meaning beneath them. He hadn’t acted aggressively as he had acted when they bumped into each other in the hall. Throughout the meeting, he seemed amused, willing to argue with her without being offended by anything she said. She couldn’t puzzle him out. 

Malfoy looked back at her, an inscrutable expression on his face. Maybe he couldn’t puzzle her out, either. 

_

For the first time in months, Harry was already home when Hermione arrived. 

He was laying on the sofa, feet up one of its arms, holding a copy of _Seeker Weekly_ above his head. The cover of the magazine featured a Ginny Weasley clad in the green and yellow Harpies uniform. She held a broom and smiled widely at the camera. 

“Are you missing her?” asked Hermione. Harry almost fell off the couch. 

“Oh, _Merlin_.” He joined Hermione in a laugh.. “Didn’t see you there.” Hermione crossed the room to the couch, grabbing his legs and setting them on the floor so she had space to sit. 

“I’m sure you were distracted,” said Hermione, inclining her head towards the magazine. “She’s been in Wales for almost a month now. You should plan a visit.”

“I don’t want to distract her,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “She should be focused on her training. And I really don’t have the time, things have been crazier than usual at the DMLE.” Harry’s shoulders sagged as he talked, and Hermione noticed how tired he looked. His robes and hair looked rumpled, like neither had been washed in multiple days. 

“Any particular reason?” she asked.

Harry sat up. “Just the usual department ruckus, nothing too important,” he said, shifting in his seat. Hermione wondered if she should push. But she knew Harry wouldn’t be forthcoming unless he wanted to be. 

“You seem to be getting closer to Shacklebolt lately,” she said instead, thinking back on the issue of _Witch Weekly_.

“We’ve always been close,” said Harry casually. He stood up, leaving _Seeker Weekly_ on the couch. He padded his way to the kitchen, pulling open the door to the refrigerator and peering inside. “Are things exciting at the Center?” he called.

Hermione exhaled a laugh. “Exciting wouldn't be the word I’d use. Interesting would be a better fit.”

“Interesting enough for you to have something to bring up Sunday,” he said. 

“ _Harry._ ” said Hermione, unable to stop the tightness in her throat. “You know I’m not going on Sunday.”

She could hear Harry sigh loudly from the kitchen. She waited on the couch as he came back into the living room, holding a jar of Honeydukes cinnamon balls. He offered her the jar. She shook her head. 

“You can’t keep avoiding the Weasleys forever, you know?” Harry said, leaning against a wall as he ate. 

Hermione almost said, _try me_. “I’m not avoiding anyone, there’s just no good reason for me to go,” she lied. 

“ _Hermione._ ” Harry imitated her tone. “You came with me to the Burrow every Sunday before you and Ron even thought about being a thing. What’s changed now that you aren’t?”

Part of Hermione wanted to shake Harry for being so clueless about why she was so uncomfortable. While she was at Hogwarts, the Weasleys had become something like surrogate parents to her. But after the war, after everything she’d been through, she suddenly didn’t know how to treat them any more. And Molly never seemed to accept that she and Ron would never be together. Hermione had to pretend to not notice her subtle attempts to pry into her life, and her current relationship with Ron. 

“You don’t notice all the hints about summer weddings,” said Hermione tiredly. “It just makes things weird. How many times can I say that there’s not going to be a wedding? She doesn’t seem to hear me.” 

“Mrs. Weasley makes the same comments to Ginny and me, you know,” he offered, talking as he chewed. Hermione scrunched her nose. 

“Are you being purposefully obtuse?” she said. “You and Ginny have been dating for years. Ron and I shared a kiss and held hands _once_.” 

Harry sighed. “It’s not that I don’t get it. But after everything that happened with Fred, and then George--” He paused. “I think they’re just trying to focus on the good things about the future, you know? So the past gets easier to handle.” 

Hermione bit down the stab of guilt low in her stomach. “I get that, Harry, you know I do. But dreaming up impossible scenarios is just going to disappoint everyone.”

Harry paused mid-chew, seeming to debate if he was going to say whatever it was, before shrugging. “Can you be sure that it _won’t_ happen?”

“I’m not having this conversation with you again,” said Hermione, standing up and walking in the direction of her room. 

“ _Aww_ , Hermione, don’t go.”

“How come thick-headed Ron Weasley is the person I had the least problem convincing about this?” she muttered to herself, ignoring her friend’s protests. 

When Hermione reached her bedroom, she closed the door behind her and cast a locking charm. Kicking her shoes off and crawling onto the bed, she finally allowed herself to feel the hurricane of emotions she had been ignoring most of the day. 

Her meeting with the former Death Eaters had left Hermione feeling raw, like she had spent too long in the heat of the sun and her skin was peeling off, leaving an uncomfortable tingle all over her body. Her conversation with Harry had intensified that anxiety, reminding her of all the areas of her life that were a jumbled mess she didn’t know how to sort through. 

Despite the stress she felt, the job was a welcome distraction, something that made it easier to brush the rest of her problems under the carpet and pretend to be a little more put together. But every day after she got home from work, as soon as she let her guard down, Hermione was overcome by the weight of her responsibilities. This job carved her out a little time to breathe, but eventually another wave would crash into her. 

_Damn it, Harry,_ she thought, irritated at him, but more angry with herself. 

Crookshanks’ meows distracted Hermione from her thoughts. She looked down at her cat, who stared at her from his perch on her best-stuffed pillow. She scooted closer to him at the top of the bed. The cat settled himself by her side and began to purr. Hermione stroked his soft fur with one hand, massaging her forehead with the other. Her eyes fell on the book resting on top of her nightstand. Harry had given her that one, too.

She thought back to her confrontation with Malfoy over a week ago. She hadn’t given his words much attention, but Parkinson's insistence that those books weren’t easily accessible made her want to investigate. 

Hermione let her fingers skim the pages of the book, paying attention to the yellow coloring of the paper. Though well-preserved, the book was obviously very old. There were no notes written in the margins, but its spine felt soft from frequent use. 

When she reached the inside of the back cover, Hermione’s eyes zoomed in on three tiny black words engraved in the upper right corner. Her eyebrows raised in surprise. “ _House of Malfoy_ , she read out loud. She quickly rose from the bed, disrupting Crookshanks, who gave her a sleepy yet indignant meow. “Sorry, boy, be right back,” she whispered, fishing for her bag on the carpet. She rifled through its contents, at last pulling out _The Sacred Wizarding Society’s Handbook_.

She returned to sit on the corner of her bed with the book in one hand. Quickly, she flipped to its back cover, finding the same engraved words in the upper right corner. 

Something clicked. Of course Malfoy would be angry at her for walking around with his family’s (valuable) belongings. Surely it stung, knowing he had no say in what happened to things that’d been in his family for longer than he’d been alive. 

“Well, Crooks,” she muttered to the cat, “how exactly did your Uncle Harry end up with this, huh?”

_

“I’m so done with this shite,” said Pansy, the brusque movement of her hand knocking over her glass and spilling liquid all over the table. 

“You better clean that up,” said Theo calmly. “This table cost me a pint. French vintage, elm wood inlaid with unicorn hair.” 

“It’s bloody ugly,” said Draco from his seat beside Daphne.

“Like the decor in the Malfoy manor is any better,” said Theo, sounding hurt. “Your place looks like a gothic mausoleum.”

Draco chuckled. “My mother decorated it, what’s your excuse?”

“Hello, can you pay attention to what I’m saying?” interrupted Pansy. “There’s no way I’m the only one unhappy with today’s meeting.” She waved her wand to clean up the gin and tonic now running down the leg of the table . 

“What happened?” asked Daphne. 

“Saint Granger has assumed control of our rehab meetings,” said Theo. “Somewhat predictably, the power’s gone to her head already.”

“You should see the way she looks at us, Daph,” said Pansy, inspecting her nails. “Like we’re dirt under her cheap shoes. You should be glad you don’t have to participate in the damn thing.” 

Draco turned to look at Daphne. “How come you haven’t, actually?” 

“I wasn’t a Death Eater,” said Daphne, looking Draco in the eye. Theo laughed. “No offense, Pansy.” Pansy waved her hand and took a sip of her drink. 

“Neither were Theo and Pansy, not really. And Millicent didn’t do anything, just her family, and only a little bit,” said Draco.

“Maybe that’s it then,” said Daphne. “My family stayed out of it entirely.” 

“Who cares,” said Theo, refilling Pansy and Daphne’s empty glasses with a bottle of Italian vermouth. “My sources say this rehab program is nothing more than a political stunt. I’m not surprised it’s already gone off the rails.” 

“Yeah everybody, let’s all believe Theo’s so-called ‘source,’” said Pansy.

“I have sources,” snapped Theo. “Just because I know more people than you lot-” 

“He probably means the middle-aged housewives he shags on the weekend” said Draco. Pansy rolled her eyes.

“That’s disgusting, Theo” said Daphne. She made a face.

“While my activities are none of your business,” said Theo, utterly unashamed, “and I can’t deny that society women are a good source of information, you’re wrong this time.” He took a sip of the vermouth. “Knowledge is power.” 

“That sounds like something Granger would say.” said Pansy.

“People like Granger are full of pithy sayings like that,” said Draco. He licked his lips, fiddling with his drink. He hadn’t taken a sip. _Fuck, I need a cigaratte._ “I guess I can’t disagree with Nott on the benefits of gathering information.” 

“Thank you,” said Nott, sweeping his arm into an exaggerated bow. Daphne giggled. 

“You’re mostly just a gossip, though,” said Draco, dodging Theo’s kick. “Don’t worry too much about it, Pans. She wants you to get worked up. Just ignore her like you did Cartwell, they can’t keep us on parole forever.”

“She’s not Cartwell, though,” said Pansy. “That woman wasn’t trying to cross any lines. Granger wants to poke at things that don’t concern her.” 

Theo turned in his chair to look at Draco. “You’re acting like you didn’t argue with her for half the meeting. I haven’t seen you talk so much in ages. You even knew the bloody theory she was rambling about.” 

Draco shrugged. “There’s nothing wrong with some intellectual back and forth,” he said, “not that you would know anything about that.” Theo shot him an outraged look. Draco continued. “Besides, unlike Cartwell, ignoring Granger is just going to make matters worse. She digs in. There’s no harm in letting her believe she’s making progress. I’m just adapting the strategy.”

Theo gave him a sly smile. “I wonder if that’s all there is to it.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “You caught me,” he said. “We’re getting engaged next weekend.” Daphne laughed when Pansy gave a little squeal. 

Draco brought the glass to his mouth and finally took a sip of the vermouth. _Okay,_ maybe _Granger intellectually stimulates me_ , he thought to himself. _But I know better than to tell Theo about it_. 

It wasn’t a big deal, in the scheme of things, and it wasn’t a hard feat to accomplish when he was mostly submitted to the inane conversations of his social circle. _There’s no harm in debating with the witch_ , Draco thought, _Nott’s too meddlesome for his own good._

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are love and motivate a writer. Let me know what you're thinking of the story :)


	4. Which one of you fuckers can get to me first?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, everyone. Here I come with a new chapter. I would like to thank everyone who left a comment and gave kudos to this story, it makes all the difference.
> 
> This chapter was edited by @jeparlepasfrancais, as always, she fucking rocks.

" **You cannot get in the way of anyone's path to God** . You can, but it goes no good. Every spy knows this. Some say God is where we put our sorrow. God says, **_which one of you fuckers can get to me first?_ **" - War of the Foxes, Richard Siken

* * *

The chandelier was white, the crystals translucent like pieces of frosted glass. She was cold all over, from the tip of her shoes to her head laying against the dark carpet. The baritones and sopranos around the room mixed until they became muffled white noise. Nothing made sense in the mess of _I didn’t take anything, please. I didn’t, I didn’t._

Any lie could sound like the truth if you wanted it badly enough _._

Although it was icy everywhere, the pressure point in her arm felt like lava, tingling like a colony of ants crawling up her skin. If the room were silent enough, Hermione would hear the wind, swaying the chandelier, threatening to drop it right on top of her head. 

She didn’t think it’d hurt. It didn’t matter, because the room wasn’t silent and there were voices screaming all over. She couldn’t distinguish a single word from the loop of _I didn’t take it, I didn’t, I didn’t, I don't know a thing, I swear, I promise, on my life, I swear to you._

Then she was standing, her body transforming in a way she couldn’t control. But it still felt like hers. If she looked down, she’d see her own palms, her dark, ashy skin. Her dirty nails, her dirty arms, her dirty blood. 

_No, it’s not dirty._ Maybe she could cut a finger off to see. Just to check. 

Maybe it’d be thick brown, like mud, like the sound of _I didn’t know a thing, I didn’t take it._

She didn’t have time. There was noise everywhere. And then, a numbing silence. She couldn’t hear. So many people around her, everyone familiar but distant too. But she couldn’t look. There was no time. 

She couldn’t look at them because in front of her there was a boy she loved like a brother. Like a brother, like they shared the same dirty brown blood. Like she could rip off a piece of herself and give it to him, like he’d take it and give her a piece of himself back.

But it didn’t make sense, what was he doing there? What were they all doing there? This was all wrong. The events were familiar, but everything else was out of sorts. 

The place was bloody chaos and the boy she loved like a brother was twisted, limp like a puppet. She wanted to scream, she wanted to roar, she wanted to twist the universe in shapes she could control until they all believed her lie: _I didn’t take anything, I didn’t, I swear._ She could make it sound like the truth. 

But everyone was silent. She was silent. Hermione Granger was silent. 

Then the crystals exploded in pieces of shattered glass and everything around her went white. 

*

Hermione woke up.

She opened her eyes, immediately closing them after the sunlight invading the room through the crack between her curtains almost blinded her. She pressed her eyelids until she saw red, then slowly reopened them. 

_Fuck, it’s been a while_ , she thought, lifting one hand towards her face. After a nightmare, she felt out of sorts for minutes after waking up, like she was still stuck in her head until something pulled her into real life again. She remembered reading somewhere that in dreams people’s shapes were always unusual -- she counted her fingers, just to be sure. 

She was distracted by Crookshanks’ hungry meows. Hermione exhaled a grunt as she rose from the bed, her limbs achy and lazy. She cracked her bedroom’s door to let the cat escape, then closed it, staggering into the bathroom. Still groggy, she ran a brush through her hair and haphazardly poked a toothbrush at her teeth. When she looked down to spit, she caught her swollen, red eyes in the mirror.

Picking through drawer after drawer in her dresser, Hermione missed the practicality of Hogwarts’ uniforms. She put on a set of thick beige robes she figured would keep her warm throughout the day, repeating to herself, _Night, gods, unbowed, unafraid captain_ , like a lucky charm. .

Hermione gathered her stuff and left the room, the knot in her stomach making her forgo breakfast. When she reached the flat’s fireplace, she grabbed a pinch of green powder and said loudly, _“Mental Rehabilitation Center.”_

When she arrived, Hermione didn’t linger near the Floo Network, starting in the direction of the program’s assigned room. She figured she still had time before the group arrived, and could use it to reread her memos. 

She was surprised when she turned a corner and saw the outline of a familiar figure. Harry was leaning against the wall next to the male restroom, dressed in Aurors’ uniform robes. He looked so _alive_ it made her dizzy. 

“Harry?” she said with a frown. 

Harry turned in her direction, smiling at her approaching figure. “Hi, Hermione. What’s up?”

“Are you working here today?” she said. “You’re never in this building.”

“Robards sent Neville and I to get some reports that Hughman owed him,” said Harry, stepping away from the wall to stand closer to Hermione. “Funny, isn’t he?” 

A few scattered Ministry employees walked past them, slowing to gawk at Harry. Hermione gripped her purse’s shoulder strap tightly. 

“Are you just getting into work?” asked Harry, seemingly ignorant of the attention. 

“Don’t distract me,” said Hermione, irritated. Harry laughed. “Why did Robards send two Aurors to retrieve some files? Seems like a waste of resources.”

Harry shrugged. “I dunno, Hermione. I don’t question every order I get.” 

“That doesn’t sound like you,” snapped Hermione, tapping her fingers rhythmically against the strap she held. “And where’s Neville?” 

“Taking a dump, probably, he’s been in the restroom for ages,” said Harry loudly. 

“Harry!” She hit him on the shoulder, and laughed sheepishly. “It’s good to see you in the daylight hours.” 

Harry rolled his eyes mockingly at her, raising a hand to touch her lightly on the shoulder. “Same to you, roomie.” Straightening himself up, Harry asked more soberly, “I’ve seen Parkinson and Bulstrode hanging around here. They’re not giving you any trouble, are they?”

“They’re on probation, Harry, they’re not going to give me a hard time and risk an extension,” said Hermione, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

“As if the likes of them care about something like that,” he muttered. “Just be careful, alright? Let me know if they do anything, I could talk to Robards about getting some rookie Aurors to stand guard around here--”

“Harry, stop,” she protested. “You shouldn’t ask your boss for favors. And I _don’t_ need protection,” she threatened. “I don’t even interact with them.” 

“Robards is a very reasonable man, Hermione,” said Harry, concealing a smile. Hermione gave him a look. “Come on, I worry about you. You’ve been so much better lately, I don’t want these turds to spoil it for you.”

Moving closer to Harry, Hermione darted her eyes around the corridor, blood rising to her cheeks in embarrassment. “Harry,” she said in a low voice, “you’re sweet, but I’m fine.” She tightened her fingers around the purse strap. “I should get going. We’ll talk at home, alright?”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “Don’t you want to see Neville?” he asked. “It’s been months--”

“Another time,” she said, offering him a tight smile before quickly marching away. _Clearly, it was a good idea to keep my job to myself_ , she thought. 

_

Entering the program’s room, Hermione instantly felt claustrophobic. Today, the grey walls and persistent humidity were just too much. She didn’t want to be here. 

She thought back to the tour Cartwell had given her during her first week at the Center. There was a solarium on the building’s second floor -- staff only, and mostly unused. _Maybe we should move there_ , she thought. _It can’t be as bad as this room. And I’ve never seen anyone in there_. 

_Let’s do it_ , she thought. _I’ll deal with it if Cartwell finds out_ . Decision made, Hermione backed out of the room, stopping in front of the door to conjure a notice telling the group where the meeting would be held. _Fulgor Littera_ , she murmured, waving her wand to form the letters. The glittering purple words would remain until each member of the group had seen them, but would be invisible to everyone else. Satisfied, Hermione made her way towards the solarium, hoping that Harry had already left the building. 

At the solarium, Hermione eased open the door and walked into the bright room. Quickly, she put up wards to keep the public from entering. Two simple spells and she was done. She’d make sure to put up stronger ones when she left. _They’re not even trying to keep people out_ , thought Hermione.

The solarium’s glass windows were clean enough, and the sunlight streaming into the room made it the liveliest spot in the entire building. But it was a little worse for wear: opaque brown stains littered the concrete floor, as if someone had trod across it in dirty boots. The corners were full of cobwebs and dust. On the far side of the room stood a collection of forgotten ceramic pots with fluxweed and snowdrop bulbs, and several cedar benches. _Looks sturdy enough_ , she muttered to herself, beginning to drag the benches into the center of the room. 

She was interrupted by the arrival of Rookwood. The man entered the room and immediately scoffed in contempt poorly disguised. Every time she saw him, he seemed to be barely keeping a lid on his anger. Hermione didn’t like the idea of being alone in his presence. 

“What are we doing here?” asked Rookwood, his jaw clenched. 

“This is where we’ll be meeting today,” said Hermione. “The other room felt too stifling.” She started pulling another bench towards the others. Rookwood made no move to help her. “Sit wherever,” she said, unable to fully suppress a patronizing tone. 

“Don’t tell me what to do!” he spat, stalking over to the wall.

Hermione resisted putting her hands up in defense. “Stand if you want, I don’t care.”

“What do we have here?” Hermione heard Malfoy’s voice before she saw him. Moments later, he strolled into the room with Nott by his side. They made an imposing picture -- both tall, Nott was slightly taller, but skinnier, than Malfoy. 

“I would say this is a nice place, but...” said Nott in greeting. Hermione fought the urge to roll her eyes. His brown hair and clothes both looked slept in, while Malfoy was well-dressed as usual. He kept his blond hair slightly longer now, a few loose strands falling on his forehead. He walked with a natural swagger, while Nott looked just a little out of place. Together, they gave the impression of a lord and the court jester, or adviser. 

“Why are you standing like that, Rookwood?” Malfoy called out, walking towards him. “Is Granger making you nervous?” 

“Shut your trap up, Malfoy,” snapped Rookwood.

“Touchy touchy,” said Nott with a smirk. He turned to wink at Hermione.

“What’s gotten your wand up your arse?” Malfoy asked Rookwood. “I just got here and your ugly mug is already souring my disposition. Granger does a good enough job of it without your help, so chill the fuck out.” 

“Can you all be quiet?” Hermione intervened, already sick of their bickering. “Like I just told Rookwood, we’re having today’s meeting here. You’re welcome to sit down.” 

Malfoy’s eyes surveyed the room, making a face when he saw the benches. “There’s probably bowtruckles waiting in there to bite us on the arse.”

“Any bowtruckles in there would be suffocated under your fat arse, so you’ll be fine,” said Hermione in an irritated voice. “Sit _down_.” 

Nott bit back a laugh and found a spot on one of the benches, followed by Rookwood. Malfoy chose to stand by the pillar near the benches, crossing one arm over the other. _They’re like primary schoolchildren,_ she thought. As the men settled into their seats, Parkinson and Bullstrode walked in, barely sparing Hermione a look before sitting down on the remaining bench. 

“Now that everyone’s arrived, we can begin,” said Hermione, setting her purse by a window. “Anyone want to start?”

“Start what?” asked Bullstrode.

“I gave you an assignment last meeting,” Hermione reminded them. “Something about muggles that confuses or disgusts you?” Blank looks. “That’s okay, I can start.”

“There are things about muggles that disgust you?” asked Nott. Malfoy coughed to disguise a chuckle.

“Not exactly,” said Hermione breezily, “but I’ve lived almost as many years in the wizarding world as I have in the muggle world. After a while, it’s become strange to go back to my parents’ house and have to relearn how to do things the muggle way, like cleaning my room. Or I’d get super annoyed by having to spend hours in traffic to visit my grandparents, when with magic we could’ve just used floo.” 

“Traffic?” asked Nott.

“If this is your attempt at relating to us, consider it unsuccessful,” said Malfoy from the pillar. “But it’s nice to see you admit the wizarding world is superior.”

“I didn’t say that,” she said. “Magic might make a lot of things easier, but it also makes some things more complicated: otherwise we wouldn’t be here. And it certainly doesn’t make wizards superior or more advanced.” 

“And by sharing these anecdotes, your plan is to -- what, change our minds about muggleborns by giving us a taste of your sad little life?” said Parkinson, picking at an errant cuticle. “I assure you, we don’t care, Granger.” 

“I’m just trying to start up a conversation,” said Hermione neutrally. “Keep in mind that successful completion of your probation depends on convincing me that you _have_ changed your minds about muggleborns. But you already knew that.” 

“I have something!” offered Nott. Parkinson turned to look at him, squinting her eyes. “What’s that look for?” said Nott, sounding offended. “I can think for myself.” 

“Go ahead, Nott,” said Hermione before Parkinson could respond. 

“Muggle religion,” he said triumphantly. “I read about it in that handbook Cartwell gave us. They have barbaric rituals where they drown children, or cut off a baby’s foreskin, or sacrifice animals. No rational wizard would do something like that,” he finished.

“More barbaric or irrational than carving a snake into a teenager’s arm?” asked Hermione. She pretended not to notice the burning looks she felt from Malfoy and Rookwood. “Besides, not all muggles are religious. Would that make some of them more similar to wizards than others?”

“No, they’re all irrational.” 

“Why though?” insisted Hermione. “British Wizards let a Sorting Hat dictate the basis of their entire personality when they’re eleven years old. That’s an irrational ritual, even if it’s not religious. Wizards keep good luck amulets. There are lots of wizarding superstitions, like wander of elder, never prosper. And pureblood families believe that they can increase their magic by giving blood offerings to the earth during solstice. I’d call that irrational, _and_ barbaric.” 

“That’s completely different,” interrupted Malfoy. “Blood magic and elemental magic are proven branches of magic. Muggle beliefs aren’t real.” 

“That’s a lazy assertion,” said Hermione, watching as Malfoy scowled. “Sure, some wizarding rituals are based in fact, just like some Muggle rituals are. Circumcision has roots in preventing disease. And lots of Muggle religion and rituals are centered around what happens after death. Nobody knows what happens after death, not even wizards, so you can’t say that preparing for it is irrational.” 

“You’re so arrogant,” said Rookwood. “You think we want to convince you. We don’t need dirt to believe anything we say.”

“You’ll have to convince me of _something_ , otherwise we’ll stay here indefinitely,”she said, ignoring the angry faces in front of her. “That’s how parole works.”

Hermione thought she heard Nott mutter something that sounded suspiciously like _I fucking miss Cartwell._

“Aren’t you guys tired?” said Hermione, turning to pace at the front of the room. “You’ve spent so much time and money hating people who are different than you. And here you are, in a mandatory parole hearing with a muggleborn. I wouldn’t call that successful, would you?” 

“Some things are bigger than you think, Granger,” said Parkinson.“It’s not just about us. It’s about our families and our traditions.”

“Okay, that’s fine,” conceded Hermione. “But you know, the Statute of Secrecy isn’t going anywhere. You’ll never have to interact with an actual muggle. So what’s the issue?”

“The issue is that Muggleborns and half-bloods look down on pureblood culture,” snapped Bullstrode. “They think we’re just going to take it lying down while they make the wizarding world more and more similar to their own.” 

“Their own?” asked Hermione in a pleasant voice. “You mean the Wizarding World? I told you, I’ve lived just as long here as I have in the Muggle world.” 

“The Wizarding World will never be your world,” said Rookwood coldly, sending a shiver down Hermione’s spine. She forced herself to ignore it. 

“Maybe you should interact with more muggleborns and half-bloods,” said Hermione to the group. “Most are just living their lives, trying to avoid being hated for something they can’t control.” Bullstrode scoffed at her words. “You don’t think we know how to coexist in peace?” asked Hermione.

“I think that's a very sweet idea,” said Malfoy sarcastically, “but it seems that our time is up for today. We’ve been here an hour already.” 

Hermione glanced over at the clock above the door. “Oh, you’re right,” she said, turning to face them again. “You can go, then. We’ll meet here next time.” 

“No homework for next time?” asked Nott. “I was so looking forward to it.” 

“If we’re going to continue using this shabby hell-hole, I’d suggest getting actual chairs, Granger,” said Malfoy. 

Everyone began to filter out of the room without a second glance. 

“Hey, Malfoy, hang on a bit, I need to give you something,” said Hermione.

Malfoy looked suspicious. “I don’t think so,” he said. “You’re allotted two hours of my time per week, no more.” He slowed down anyway, Nott giving him a confused look as he left the room. 

“This won’t take long,” said Hermione, taking the items she wanted from her purse. 

“What is this?” asked Malfoy when Hermiodne offered him the books. He studied her carefully, without looking at the books in her outstretched arm. Hermione purposefully kept a neutral expression on her face.

“These are your books, you can have them.” 

“Come again?” 

“Are you blind?” sighed Hermione in exasperation when he didn’t take them from her. “Just take your bloody books, Malfoy.”

“And you’re giving them to me out of the kindness of your heart?” he asked. “I won’t owe you a snog or anything if I take them?”

“Believe it or not, no,” she said, hoping he didn’t notice her shaking hands. “I’ve finished them, of course. They don’t have any information I really need, and if they’re as rare as you said, I figured you’d want them back.” 

“Because you figured I’d want them back,” said Malfoy slowly. “So … you’re just going to give them to me?” he said, an octave higher than usual. 

“Like I said, they don’t have anything I need, and they’re yours anyway,” said Hermione, lowering her arm down. “I didn’t know they were yours, by the way. You could have mentioned that when we bumped into each other.” 

“And why would I do that, Granger?” said Malfoy, sounding more agitated by the second. “It’s not like we were stopping to chitchat. We barely tolerate each other.” 

“That’s true,” she shrugged, “but they’re your books, so you can have them.”

“I don’t know what your plan is here, but I don’t need pity from someone like you.” 

Hermione nostrils flared. “Do you enjoy being difficult? Just take the damn books!” she said, pushing them into his chest. Malfoy stumbled back in surprise. “You’re the most aggravating person I’ve ever met.”

“And you’re bloody mad,” he spat, holding the books to his chest. 

“You need to take a hard look at your life if someone being kind to you sends you into such a hissy fit,” she fumed, pointing her index finger at him. 

“Don’t point your finger at me!” said Malfoy. “I don’t need--”

“My pity, yeah, I heard you the first time,” interrupted Hermione. “I certainly don’t pity you, Malfoy. Leave the books here if you don’t want them, I don’t care!” She stomped her way out of the room, leaving Malfoy standing alone with his books. 

Hermione cursed under her breath. _That’s what you get for having good intentions,_ she thought, ignoring the curious looks of passers-by as she marched down the corridor. _Malfoy’s an ungrateful, mediocre prat. I should've thrown the damn books into a bonfire._

Her conversation with Malfoy confirmed that Hermione hadn’t gotten anywhere with the group. Her methods had been just as unsuccessful as Cartwell’s coddling. _Even if they realize the lack of logic of their position, it’s never going to outweigh what they were taught, she thought._

Hermione felt defeated. She had been going about this all the wrong ways. Even if she would backtrack and rethink her position when faced with contrary facts, she wasn’t dealing with people who held logical beliefs. Pureblood supremacy wasn’t an arithmancy problem with a clear-cut answer. It was a belief system, as ingrained in them as her own bone-deep belief that they were wrong. She had no idea how to empathize with them, even if she wanted to. 

She thought about owling Hughman her letter of resignation, but as soon as the thought crossed her mind, Hermione pictured Malfoy’s thin lips twisting into a smile. He’d be so satisfied, if she gave up.

It was enough to keep the flame of motivation burning inside her chest. 

_

“Draco?”

Draco stared out the sitting room’s bay window, his eyes locked on the defeated-looking daffodil garden that his mother insisted on growing. He couldn't figure out if he was angry, or confused, his emotions morphing into a grey cloud of indistinguishable feelings. 

“Draco?”

He kept replaying the last hour of his life in his head, intent on puzzling it out. He’d thrown the books on top of the study table as soon as he’d arrived home, irritated at himself for taking them in the first place. 

A deep sigh, and then, “Draco?” 

It was ridiculous how Granger had acted as if she was doing him a huge favor, throwing in his face the fact that he couldn’t have control over even his own things. She had used her fake kindness to poke at all of his sore spots, then acted as if he was being defensive for no reason. 

He mindlessly tapped his shoes against the floor. On top of everything, Granger had the audacity of leaving him to talk to himself. 

“I swear to Merlin--”

 _Fuck_ , he thought, _that poor excuse of a witch is always walking away from me._

“Draco Malfoy!” 

“What is it, woman?” snapped Draco, turning to stare at Pansy. She looked ready to throw her cup of dragon well tea in his face. 

“Did you invite me here just to ignore me?” she asked, her fingers tightening around the teacup. 

“You invited yourself,” he replied, watching the limoges porcelain in her hand begin to crack. 

“What’s wrong with you?” asked Pansy, waving her wand to fix the teacup. “Look what you made me do. Your mother loves this china.”

“My mother couldn’t tell it apart from the other hundreds she has,” said Draco, trying to leave the snarkiness out of his voice. He needed to make his limits clearer to Theo and Pansy -- he couldn’t handle them showing up whenever they were bored. They had gotten needier after the sodding rehab program had become part of their lives, which added to Draco’s endless list of reasons to despise it. 

“I saw Granger pulled you aside after the meeting. Did she say something to you? What did she want with you?” said Pansy,

“Who gives a shite about what she has to say?” said Draco. ““I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”

Pansy refilled her cup of tea. “You sound like you give a shite. And you haven’t answered my question.” 

“She just wanted to pass along a message from Cartwell, nothing major,” he lied. “Typical of her to time it to further inconvenience me.” 

“I’d rather swallow a horned slug before admitting it to anyone else, but I might miss her,” said Pansy, sipping from her cup. “I was thinking about what Daphne said the other day, about why she wasn’t picked for the program but we were. It doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

“The Greengrasses have always been the craftiest snakes in the den, I’m not surprised,” he replied, not bothering to feign interest in the conversation.

“They were the first to criticize Dumbledore way back when,” said Pansy thoughtfully. “But then Daphne and Astoria said they couldn’t get permission to join the Inquisitorial Squad. My mother says their secrets have secrets.” 

“And what pureblood family doesn’t?” said Draco. “Daphne’s your friend, why don’t you ask her about it?” Draco looked out at the garden again. He suddenly craved his broom. Maybe flying for an hour or so would clear his mind. He rarely did it, anymore. 

“Don’t be daft,” said Pansy. “You can’t just ask about that kind of thing, no matter how close you are to someone. It just isn’t done.”

“Then ask Theo, he always knows everybody’s business,” said Draco. “My guess is that the old bats at the Wizengamot wanted to make an example out of us. We’re the pureblood scapegoats.” 

“But why would they pick Millicent, then? No one cares about the Bulstrodes.” 

“The Bulstrodes have been inbreeding themselves out of a family line for decades. Maybe the Wizengamot just doesn’t like them,” said Draco. “I certainly don't.” 

“That may be true,” said Pansy, seemingly unbothered by Draco insulting her friend. “But they have a vacant chair at the Wizengamot, just like the Greengrasses. At this point, they have a better standing than us.” 

“Should we toast to that?” said Draco, smirking. “The way the Ministry and the whole wizarding world are expecting The Golden Trio to salvage this generation, I don’t want anything to do with Wizengamot politics, and you shouldn’t either.”

“So you wouldn’t accept it if the Wizengamot gave your family an out of this whole mess?” said Pansy, spinning her finger in the cold water left in her cup. 

“Would you?” asked Draco, idly watching as she brought the finger to her mouth and closed her lips around it. They both knew that he was no longer attracted to her. 

Just like they both knew that they wouldn’t answer each other’s questions. As Pansy had said, it just wasn’t done. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you react the same as Draco if someone you thought as a enemy was suddenly nice to you? LMAO. 
> 
> I'm coming with a new chapter soon <3 comments and kudos are always welcomed and make me super motivated to keep writing and posting. Thank you all for reading.


	5. I Clawed My Way Into the Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter beta-ed by the awesome @jeparlepasfrancais.

" **I clawed my way into the light but the light is just as scary.** I'd rather quit. I'd rather be sad. It's too much work. (...) I hate my friends. And when **I hate my friends I've failed myself, failed to share my compassion.** I shine a light on them of my own making: septic, ugly, the wrong yellow. I mean, maybe it's better if my opponent wins." - Self-Portrait against Red Wallpaper, Richard Siken

* * *

The week passed at the sort of numbing pace that made Hermione feel restless. She procrastinated researching for her meetings, knowing but refusing to acknowledge that she’d already failed. 

After she’d given Malfoy back his books, Hermione hadn’t gotten access to any new material, and she definitely wouldn’t ask for Harry’s help again -- he became more distant each day. 

Harry still acted warmly towards her. But recently, he seemed distracted, bothered by something -- he got home later and later, and while he was there in body, it was clear to Hermione his mind was elsewhere. 

She figured he was missing Ginny, or upset that Robards hadn’t been pairing him with Ron for missions anymore -- he had complained about it so many times that Hermione had to tune him out, afraid she’d snap at him about the unhealthiness of their codependency. 

It wasn’t until Thursday morning, when a reddish rock-eagle owl dropped that day’s issue of _The Daily Prophet_ in their flat, that Hermione found out why Harry had been acting so strangely. 

_The Boy Who Lived Takes Over the Department of Magical Law Enforcement!_

_By Padma Patil_

_Merlin’s Beard! Defeating the darkest wizard of all times wasn’t enough for The Boy Who Lived. In a surprising move, the Ministry of Magic confirmed this morning that Harry Potter has been newly appointed the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. At 22 years old, he’s the youngest wizard in history to accomplish this feat._

_“I’m voluntarily stepping down to pursue other ventures in the Ministry. Potter’s journey made him the obvious choice for the position, and I have absolute confidence he’s ready for the job,” Gawain Robards told our reporter, refusing to give any further information about the aforementioned ventures no matter how much we insisted. “You will all know in due time,” he repeated._

_Potter’s takeover might say a lot about the Wizarding World’s future direction, but it also made us curious about what the remaining members of The Golden Trio are up to._

_Ronald Weasley, mid-level Auror, has been working as hard as he’s ever been, and enjoying his rise up the economic ladder. Hermione Granger, our muggle-born hero, can be found roaming the halls of Mental Rehabilitation Center, putting her brains to use as a new staff member of the Ministry’s successful post-war initiative. Although the rumored couple seems pretty busy, we wonder if they’ll find the time to grace us with the wedding of the ages we’re hoping for!_

Hermione set the paper down on the dining table. She was so surprised that she couldn’t bring herself to feel annoyed at Padma’s quip about her and Ron. 

_This makes no sense_ , she thought to herself. _Head Aurors like Robards don’t step down without a lucrative job officer somewhere else. And why would he appoint Harry to fill his place? He’s been an Auror for just three years, and the first year was training. There’s no way this hasn’t pissed off people that have worked in the department for decades without a promotion._

As Harry strolled into the room, Hermione quickly forced a smile onto her face.. 

“Oh, it’s already out,” said Harry, his eyes pinned to his own moving photo on the newspaper’s front page. “I’m really sorry, I wanted to tell you as soon as I heard. But Robards made me promise I wouldn’t. I only told Ginny three days ago.” 

“That’s okay!” said Hermione, trying to keep a light tone. “I’m so happy for you, Harry, obviously.” 

“You don’t look so sure, Hermione,” said Harry, sitting down in the chair across from her. 

“Don’t be silly,” said Hermione. “I’m just surprised. This is huge for you, Gin must be over the moon.”

“She is!” he said excitedly. “She wanted to get a portkey home last night so we could celebrate, but I convinced her to come this weekend instead. We’ll all have to do something.” 

“Sure, we can celebrate,” said Hermione, looking down at the headline again. “You should owl Ron about this, though, he’ll be livid if he finds out through The Daily Prophet.”

“Of course Ron already knows!” said Harry. 

Hermione looked up at him again, struggling to keep her face neutral. “You told Ron?”

“Of course I told Ron,” he laughed. “He works in the department. He saw me going to meetings with Robards and Kingsley all the time and got curious, it was easier to tell him.”

“Of course, it’s Ron, ” said Hermione, swallowing the disappointment in her throat and feeling it lodge somewhere below her Adam’s apple. If she didn’t leave, she’d embarrass herself and ruin Harry’s moment. “I’m sorry, I have to go feed Crooks. Let me know what we’re doing to celebrate,” she said, waving a hand as she walked out of the room. “I’m so happy for you!” she called down the hall.

She pretended not to hear him say, “Hermione?” as she closed the door to her room. 

_Stop being so childish_ , Hermione thought, _so what if he told Ginny and Ron first? She’s his girlfriend and Ron is basically his twin. I’m being stupid._

Hermione berated herself for being unable to muster genuine joy over something that was making her best friend so happy. She refused to feel jealous over something so insignificant, something that didn’t concern her.

“This is not about me,” she chastised herself. 

_But it feels like it_ , she thought, _when I’m so obviously an afterthought._

_

Friday morning, Hermione found herself back in the Center’s solarium, her legs twisted in the lotus position in the chair she’d stolen from the program’s official room.

“What are we arguing about today?” asked Malfoy, grinning. She noticed he had a cigarette tucked behind his ear. She hoped he wasn’t planning to light it. 

“I don’t know,” said Hermione, looking up to assess the room. Bulstrode and Parkinson looked at each other with twin expressions of confusion. 

“You _don’t know_?” asked Malfoy incredulously. “Did you hit your head?”

“Thanks for the concern, but no,” said Hermione, crossing her arms. “None of you seem to enjoy the subjects I’ve brought up, so I figured you could pick today’s topic yourselves.” 

“If this is a trick--” Rookwood snarled.

“Would you relax?” Hermione said in an exasperated tone. “I’m not here to trick you,” she said and gestured to the room. “What would you like to talk about?”

“How about nothing?” said Parkinson, examining her perfectly trimmed nails.

Hermione clicked her tongue. “That’s not an option, I’m afraid.” 

The room remained silent for a full minute. The Slytherins traded increasingly irritated looks. Hermione tried to channel Cartwell’s seemingly endless patience -- _I don’t have a patient bone in my body,_ she thought, already itching to say something. 

Before she could, Malfoy raised his eyes to her face. “Let’s talk about you, Granger,” he said.

“About me?” said Hermione, matching his stare. “Why?”

“You like to talk about us so much, so why not change things up a little?” said Malfoy. He grabbed the cigarette from behind his ear and held it between two fingers. “Why exactly are you working for this ridiculous program?” 

“I’m curious about that too,” said Nott, licking his lips in anticipation. “Go on, spill it.” 

“This program is a legitimate post-war effort that should be taken seriously,” stalled Hermione. “I’m happy to be working for the MRC.” 

“I never took you for a Ministry parrot, Granger,” said Malfoy. He twirled the cigarette in the air and pointed it towards her. 

“I don’t represent the Ministry,” Hermione said patiently, “there’s a lot of reasons a program like this would be interesting to me.”

“Ah,” Malfoy stretched his chin, “you do fancy yourself a useless cause, don’t you? What was that thing you created in Hogwarts? The spew?” 

Hermione rolled her eyes, “It was the S.P.E.W, and I didn’t know you paid such close attention to me during our school days, Malfoy.”

“Your failures served as top-notch entertainment, don’t let it get to your head,” Parkinson said before Malfoy could, “this time it’s just sad, though, you really think you’re onto something.”

“You do realize we are essentially in the same boat, don’t you?” said Hermione, “If I fail, so do you, and I’m not the one who will have to face the consequences.” 

“It begs the question, though, why would you settle for something like this?” said Parkison, “and how pitiful your life must really be, when even Weasel got a better deal than you?”

“Maybe I have masochistic tendencies and like to torture myself with exposure to Slytherins,” she said flippantly, ignoring the mention of Ron. 

Nott laughed loudly at her words, making Parkinson scowl in his direction. She turned to Hermione and raised an eyebrow. “You still haven’t answered, it seems like you're not up to playing your own game.” 

“I don’t mind the question.” lied Hermione.

“Then answer it.” Parkinson pushed. 

If they’d asked her weeks ago, Hermione would’ve said she had accepted the job because of the law of cause-and-effect. If she did her part now, the wizarding world would reap its benefits later, hopefully by becoming a more equal society. 

Now, weeks in, frustrated and having to face her own embarrassment for failing when she had insisted she was capable of this, Hermione didn’t know if her motivations were ever that altruistic. 

Finally, she muttered something that resembled the truth. “Maybe I’m just trying to understand.”

Parkinson looked dissatisfied, but Nott leaned forward, a gleam of mischief in his eyes. “Well, if that’s the case,” he said, “then let’s start by setting you straight about the festivities you had the nerve to compare to Muggle rituals.”

_

As the Slytherins filed out, Hermione started reorganizing the room. _I’ll have to tell Cartwell I’m having the meetings here_ , she thought, putting the benches back in their original places and shrinking the chairs to take them downstairs. 

“Granger,” called Malfoy.

Hermione turned towards him, a guarded look on her face.. “Do you need something?”

Malfoy didn’t answer her. Instead, he pulled a hand out of his pocket, exposing a thick, black leather book -- its cover didn’t have a title, but it was locked with a golden latch. Hermione stared at the book. After several heartbeats, Hermione looked up at Malfoy. He had his nose in the air.

“Malfoys aren’t known for owing anyone anything,” he said frostily.

“You don’t owe me anything, Malfoy,” said Hermione.

Malfoy let out a sharp breath. “Take the book, Granger.” 

Even as he stared her down, Malfoy looked deeply uncomfortable. _Malfoy is such a child_ , she thought.. 

Hermione held out her hand for the book. He handed her the book, being careful not to let their fingers touch. It felt heavy in her palm. She brushed a finger down the hard cover, then tried to open the latch, but it didn’t budge. 

“It has a protection charm,” he said. “ _Secretum anguis._ ”

Hermione muttered the unlocking spell. She heard a faint _click_ , and the latch opened. The book flipped open to its first page, which was embossed with the Malfoy black, silver and green crest. “You’re giving this to me?”

“I’m _lending_ it to you,” said Malfoy with pursed lips. “That’s the only copy, so you better take care of it.”

“I’m always careful with books,” said Hermione. “But I don’t understand--” 

“You kept going _on and on_ about things you have no clue about,” said Malfoy. “It gets boring, and I don’t like being bored, Granger. Take the book.” 

“You’re giving me this book so I can argue with you about it?” asked Hermione with amusement. “That’s your kind of entertainment?”

“I’m _lending_ it to you,” he repeated.“You can do whatever you want with the information.”

“This is strangely nice of you,” she said. Malfoy opened his mouth to respond. He looked like he was about to say something unpleasant, so before he could speak, Hermione continued., “Thank you, Malfoy.” 

Malfoy hesitated, his eyes flickering between Hermione and the book. She wondered if he already regretted giving it to her.

“Whatever,” he finally said. Then he left her standing in the room. 

Hermione glanced at the book again, then closed its latch. She put it carefully in her purse. Before leaving, she gathered the shrunk chairs in her arms. 

As she made her way down to the Center’s first floor, Hermione consciously ignored the unfamiliar feeling fluttering low in her stomach. 

_

 _She should’ve argued her way out of this_. If Hermione hadn’t felt as guilty as she did about how she’d reacted to Harry’s news, she would have argued her way out of this. Waiting with Harry and Ginny to leave, she wondered if it was too late for her to argue her way out of this. But she didn’t, and the three of them soon arrived at the Burrow. 

The Burrow used to be loud, regardless of the time of day. Her first time there, Hermione got the impression that the Weasleys moved in a rhythm that only made sense to them, bodies bustling around every corner of the cramped house, somehow sidestepping each other and making the place seem bigger than it was. 

In more recent years, the house had become emptier. Sound traveled further, and sounded duller, like an out-of-use church bell, or a song someone forgot to sing the chorus of. 

But some things hadn’t changed. “My children!” squealed Mrs. Weasley, pulling Ginny and Harry into her arms. She squeezed the couple to her chest before releasing them, then did the same to Hermione. “Oh, dear, did you get skinnier?” she said, patting her hands down Hermione’s body. “Sit down, lunch’s almost ready, but I’m going to get you a slice of the plum pie I baked yesterday. You need to fatten up.”

“That’s okay, Mrs. Weasley. I had breakfast before we left,” Hermione tried, knowing she was going to be ignored.

“Nonsense, there’s always space for pie,” said Mrs. Weasley, scurrying towards the fridge.

“Mum! You didn’t offer me any pie,” complained Ron as he slouched into the kitchen. 

“Because you would have eaten the entire thing!”

“Blasphemy!” he said, walking towards Hermione and pulling her into a side hug that lasted a beat too long. “Hi, I missed you,” he whispered, mouth moving against her hair. 

“I missed you too,” she said with a light smile, moving away and causing his arm to fall back to his side. “Should we sit?” she said to Ron, now behind her as she walked towards the table and sat herself in a chair.

“No greetings for your sister, you wart?” Ginny said to Ron, nudging his side with her elbow. He swatted at her, which she ducked. She moved to sit in the chair beside Hermione’s. Harry and Ron sat across from them. 

“I’m not greeting you after you bailed on me yesterday to suck face with this one,” he said, nodding towards Harry. 

“Our celebrations went for longer than we expected, if you know what I mean,” said Ginny, waggling her eyebrows. Ron pretended to gag, and Harry’s entire face flushed red.

“Ginevra! That’s not how a lady behaves,” scolded Mrs. Weasley, flicking her ear as she passed to set a plate and a fork in front of Hermione. “Here you go, dear.” she said, ignoring Ginny’s outraged yelp. 

“Thank you.” 

“Where’s Mr. Weasley?” Harry asked.

“Oh, he received an owl this morning about some Muggle trinket that was charmed to burst into flames and kept turning up in random shops in Godric's Hollow. Stupid little prank, but it’s going to take him away for the rest of the day,” she said, her hands on her hips. “He sends his congratulations, Harry! We’re so proud of you.” 

“Thank you, Mrs. Weasley,” said Harry.

“But it’s a Sunday!” grumbed Ginny. 

“You know the Ministry doesn’t care about things like that,” said Mrs. Weasley, turning to check something on the stove. “You better start getting used to it, Harry! It’s going to be even worse for you.”

“It’s already bad,” said Ron. “Even low-level Aurors get called away for missions all the time.” 

“A Head of Department has more responsibilities,” cooed Mrs. Weasley. “Youngest one in Ministry history!” 

“It’s not a big deal,” said Harry, still blushing.

Hermione set her fork down to look up at him. “It’s a huge deal, Harry. You should be proud of yourself.” Harry gave her a tight smile.

Ron looked back and forth between them, frowning. “How’s your work at the MRC, Hermione?” he asked.

“It’s been okay, it keeps me busy,” she said, taking a bite of the pie to avoid looking up. 

“What do you do there, exactly?” asked Ginny.

Hermione didn’t answer for a few seconds, toying with her fork. She glanced at Harry, but he wasn’t looking at her. _It’s not the right time_

“I’m working with Edina Cartwell,” she said. “She’s a Mind Healer. I assist her and get to do some research as well,” she said. _Half a truth is still a truth_.

“It’s really cool you’re working there, Hermione,” said Ron in a low voice. “If we had the MRC right after the war, then maybe George-” 

“Ron!” snapped Ginny snapped. She shot a pointed glance at her mother. “Shut up.”

“I’m just saying,” Ron licked his lips guilty, “It’s a noble cause.” 

“I think so too,” said Harry, nodding. 

Hermione frowned. “That’s not what you said when it opened up,” she said to Harry. “Remember? You insisted it was a political cover up.”

“I changed my mind,” Harry shrugged, “I know more about what’s happening behind the scenes now.” 

“So now you’re just going to support everything that the Ministry says?” said Hermione. 

“I’m not the one who works at the MRC, Hermione, you are,” Harry snapped. 

“It’s not about the MRC, Harry.”

“That’s what we were talking about, Hermione.”

“I just think you should be more cautious,” continued Hermione. “Don’t you think it’s weird Robards is stepping down without announcing what he’s doing next?” 

“I think I know more than you do, Hermione,” said Harry in a firm voice. “I’m the one who works with him, and just because we’re not telling everyone about our next steps--”

“We?” she asked, growing more exasperated. “Who’s we? You and Robards? Or you and the Ministry?” 

“Hey!” hissed Ginny. “Lay off him, Hermione. We’re supposed to be celebrating.” 

Hermione flinched. She looked up, her eyes travelling over her friends’ faces. All three looked back at her --- Ron seemed confused, Harry subdued, and Ginny ready to yell at Hermione for it. 

_What’s wrong with me?,_ she thought.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed. “I didn’t mean to interrogate you, Harry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.” She pushed back from the table. “I’m going to the restroom,” she said. She stood up and quickly marched out of the kitchen. 

In the restroom, Hermione locked the door behind her and hunched over the sink, turning the tap all the way on. She splashed her face and neck with cold water, drops soaking the wooden floor. She stared at her reflection in the crooked mirror -- her braided hair tied into a knot at the nape of her neck, frizz framing her face. Her eyes were wet -- she hadn’t even felt it. How long had it been since she took a proper look at herself?

Someone knocked at the door, Hermione turned the tap off, muttering a spell to clean up the mess she’d made. 

“Hermione?” called Ron. 

“I’ll be right out,” she said, steadying her voice. 

She blinked a couple of times, trying to get rid of the tears threatening to surface. She hated crying. There was no reason for her to cry. 

Hermione cracked the door open, looking up at Ron. _I still love him_ , she reminded herself. _I will always love him_. 

“Are you alright?” he asked carefully. “I’m sorry Ginny snapped at you, you know how she gets protective. Harry’s a grown man, he can handle himself.”

“I was out of line, Ron, it’s okay,” she said. “We’re supposed to be celebrating Harry, and instead I’m cornering him.”

“I think he was just surprised,” said Ron, stepping back to give her space to move. “Don’t worry. He’s already laughing at Ginny’s training camp stories.” 

“I’m glad I haven’t completely ruined the day,” she said, stepping out of the bathroom. 

They were standing close. Too close. The closest they had stood in months. It made the distance she had forced between them even more obvious. Hermione ducked her head to hide her burning cheeks. 

“I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever,” he said quietly. “We should hang out more.” He looked at her. His gaze felt hollow. . 

“Yes, we should.”

Hermione couldn’t even tell if she was lying. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an aspect I was super interested in approaching in this story is how all the friendships would change/evolve after something so huge and traumatic as a war; every character is emotionally affected by it in such different ways, how would that clash and affect the relationships as people try to figure themselves out individually? let me know in the comments if this interests you as well! there's a lot to work with as the story progresses. 
> 
> (the quote used on this chapter is one of my favorites, i think we've all gone through a moment of not necessarily liking the people we love the most and feeling guilty for it)
> 
> hope you all liked this chapter! thank you so much for the comments/kudos, they always make me super motivated!


	6. Singing While Rome Burns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was edited by the best @jeparlepasfrancais

“I had a dream about you. We were in the gold room where everyone finally gets what they want. **You said Tell me about your books,** your visions made of flesh and light and I said This is the Moon. This is the Sun (...) **_Here I am leaving you clues. I am singing now while Rome burns._ ** We are all just trying to be holy. We are all going forward. None of us are going back." - Snow and Dirty Rain, Richard Siken

* * *

Hermione wasn’t inclined to admit it, but she was intrigued.

On the way home from the Burrow, her mind oscillated from speculating why Malfoy had given her the book, to deciding she should just ignore it and return it to him, to realizing she wouldn’t be able to control her curiosity, saying to hell with it, and deciding to crack the book open as soon as she got home. As soon as she got to the flat, Hermione locked herself in her room with it and a cup of peppermint tea.

She opened it. The book discussed some of the topics that Hermione had read about in the books Harry had given her -- pureblood beliefs, magic, and rituals -- but with such detail she could finally get an accurate sense of some of the intricacies of pureblood culture. Based on the way it was written, Hermione wondered if it was supposed to be a manifesto of sorts. 

The hands on the clock turned as she kept reading. Halfway through, a passage stuck out to her:

 _The most distinctive difference between a wizard who is faithful to our mission and a wizard who betrays it is a knowledge of the fundamental importance of our existence._ _As magic is as old as the earth itself, so is our connection to it. We were the chosen ones. Our home is the symbol of our wealth, so we must grow and protect it, as others will covet it. Our witches are the backbone of our families, so we must clothe, feed, and worship them. Our children are the upholders of our purity and our reputations, so we must guide them through life until they come to a successful union. It is imperative that we keep ourselves untouched by temptations - we must speak loudly and proudly of our origins, so others will know our values. We must rule all institutions that influence our society, to guarantee the survival of our people. And above all, we must safeguard our world from the invasion of the impure._

As she read through it, Hermione constantly thought back to Malfoy and his intentions in giving her the book. She hoped he wasn’t attempting to get her to sympathize with him. She certainly didn’t.

But Hermione _saw_ him, perhaps for the first time . _If a boy is raised to believe that hating a minority is the only way to protect his people_ , she asked herself, _can he really do anything but exactly that?_

 _Of course he can_ , she thought, catching herself. _We expect everyone to put aside their biases to be part of society. We just fought a war over it._

Hermione finally closed the book, exhaling a deep breath. As she glanced out her window, she was startled to realize it was already morning -- she hadn’t spent the entire night reading since she’d taken the OWLs. 

Hermione went to set the book on her nightstand, but paused and opened its cover once more. She rubbed her finger over the embossed family crest and fine-printed letters beneath it.. _Malfoy’s ancestors must be rolling over in their graves right now_ , she thought.

It was that thought that spurred Hermione to get up from the bed and grab her copy of _The Question of Cultural Identity._

She grabbed a roll of kraft paper from a drawer, then wrapped the book in it, tying the package with a string. She’d take it to the owlery in Diagon Alley later in the morning. _You never know_ , she thought. _Maybe he’ll learn something_. 

_

Draco raked his fingers through his hair in frustration. He scowled down at the book in his hand, flicking his wand to turn to the next page. Many of the terms confused him, and the author’s unusual word choice made the book feel like it was written in a different language. Still, he wouldn’t let it defeat him. 

“What are you reading?” said a deep voice. Draco jolted upright, the book slipping through his fingers and tumbling to the floor with a loud _thud_. 

“Bloody hell, Nott,” said Draco. “Where did you come from?” 

“The fireplace.” Theo bent down to pick up the book, but Draco grabbed it from his hands before he could get more than a quick glance. “Why are you so touchy?”

“I’m going to put the damn wards up this time, I mean it,” snapped Draco. 

Theo rolled his eyes. “So you keep saying.” 

Draco tossed the book into a drawer, then shut it and walked over to his chair behind the cherry wood desk. Theo was already comfortably slouching in the armchair in front of it. 

“Care to tell me to what do I owe the displeasure of your presence?” 

“What were you reading?” asked Theo again, propping his feet up on the table. With a sweep of his arm, Draco immediately knocked them down, making Theo grunt. 

“What is it this time?” asked Draco. “Spit it out.” 

“Fine,” sighed Theo, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m hiding from Pans.” 

“What have you done now?”

“Absolutely nothing! She’s bloody mad, is what she is. She sent me a Howler last night, scared the living hell out of me,” he said, his voice rising in tone and volume. “I was having a bath, and my glass of Dragon Barrel Brandy fell in the water, made a fucking mess. I had to take another shower. She _ruined_ my _me_ time.” 

Draco chuckled. “What’s she so pissed about?”

Theo rolled his eyes. “Something about me indulging Granger. Like I have any other choice, I don’t plan on being in that damn program forever.”

“And you think coming here is a smart idea? It’s not going to take her long to figure out where you went.” 

“I might have sent her an owl asking to meet at The Leaky Cauldron,” he looked down at his watch, “and she might be getting there now, and I certainly don’t intend on going.” 

“That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, and that’s saying something,” said Draco, amused. “A Howler’s nothing compared to what she’ll do when she finds out you stood her up.” 

Theo crossed his hands behind his head and gave him a mischievous grin. “I might have also owled Kiran Avery to meet her there. Daphne told me Pansy’s been fancying him for months,” he said, sounding proud. 

"Avery? The sod looks like a hippogriff stepped all over his face." 

"He's also going to inherit half the shops in Knockturn Alley," said Theo. "Beauty is fickle, but a fat vault is the gift that keeps on giving."

Draco smirked. "Pansy was always a visionary.” he said. “Or rather, her mum is."

"Certainly," said Theo, "but I figured getting properly shagged might get her off my back.”

“Theodore Nott,” said Draco, “you're a devious bastard. But maybe there’s some Gryffindor in you, betting it all on the unlikely chance that Avery’s good in the sack.”

“You call it foolish, I call it a calculated risk. Either way, I’m taking my chances," said Theo. "I would offer you my matchmaking skills too, but I don’t think you need them” he said significantly, waggling his eyebrows at Draco. 

Draco’s eyes narrowed, and Theo stood up from the chair, backing away from the table.

“What are you on about?” asked Draco. 

“I’ve seen you staying back from class recently,” said Theo. “You seem to be getting all chummy with Granger.” 

Draco’s jaw twitched. “Did someone slip a babbling beverage into your tea this morning, Nott?” he spat, watching as his friend walked over to the fireplace. “You’re speaking nonsense.”

“Just using my eyes,” shrugged Theo, grabbing a pinch of Floo powder. “By the way, how did you get your hands on a Muggle book?”

Before Draco had the chance to come up with an answer, Theo stepped into the fireplace, smirking as he waved goodbye.

“Sodding git,” hissed Draco. 

_ 

The large framed photo pinned to the wall behind Hughman’s table was crooked. Hermione’s eye kept wandering to it. In the photo, Shacklebolt and Hughman shook hands, then walked together to push open the center’s front doors. 

Hermione itched to take her wand out and straighten the frame -- it’d take half a second, and she didn’t understand why Hughman wasn’t bothered by it.

 _I’m going out of my mind_ she thought, barely listening as he rambled on about Hermione’s exceptional work at the center. _He doesn’t even know what I’m doing_. Even if Hermione _had_ been assisting Cartwell, as the director believed, the compliments would fall on the side of arse kissing. 

“Of course, we are so incredibly proud of the work you’ve been doing here! Having you and your friends support the MRC means so much to the Ministry!” he finished, looking at Hermione expectantly. 

Hermione feigned a smile. She cleared her throat before saying, “I’m glad my work is being well received.”

“It’s more than just work! It’s a mission!” said Hughman, his voice a pitch too high. “And it’s important for us that everyone is aware of that.”

“The general public has lots of reasons to be happy about the Center’s work,” said Hermione, keeping her smile. “The Wizarding World has become so vocal about political initiatives these past few years. Nothing slides by anymore. It’s a great development.”

“Of course, and the Ministry cares greatly about the public opinion,” nodded Hughman enthusiastically, “which takes me to my reason for calling you here, actually.”

“Oh?” asked Hermione, “I thought you just wanted to touch base.”

“Pardon?” he asked, forehead raising. 

“I apologize,” she said quickly, “it’s a Muggle saying.” 

That made Hughman laugh -- too loud, and for too long. Hermione shifted in her seat, her eyes going back to the crooked frame. 

“You’re a funny one, Miss Granger!” he said, still chuckling. He grabbed his mug from the table, glancing at Hermione over the rim as he lifted it to his lips. “Your sense of humor will be an asset when you talk to the press at the St. Mungo’s anniversary party next week.”

“Excuse me?” said Hermione with a frown. “I don’t remember agreeing to that.”

“It’s been four hundred years since the hospital was funded! They’re throwing a party to celebrate its accomplishments and the Healers, of course. Isn’t that exciting?” Hermione opened her mouth, but Hughman continued talking. “It’s a huge event for the wizarding community, and you are the perfect person to represent the MRC.”

“I don’t think that would be appropriate, sir,” said Hermione. “I started here just a little over a month ago. I’m sure there are people who have been here since the beginning that would appreciate the honor.” 

“I will be there as well, of course!” said Hughman, setting the mug down on the table. “You’d get the other invite.”

“I feel like we’re talking past each other, sir,” said Hermione, struggling to maintain politeness. “Why don’t you give the invite to Cartwell?” she offered. “She did her apprenticeship there, so she probably knows the St. Mungo’s staff well.”

“Cartwell is a valuable member of our team, but she would agree you’re a better fit for this,” he said. He moved to grab an envelope from beneath a stack of parchments, thrusting it into her hand. “I insist, Miss Granger.”

Hermione reluctantly accepted the envelope. As she did so, she had the nagging feeling she was being used. “If you insist.” she mumbled. 

“Great! You’re such a team player, Miss Granger, that’s the attitude that we need from everyone,” said Hughman, his voice rising with enthusiasm. “Now, keep in mind that you’ll likely be approached by reporters at this event, so it’s important to…” he hesitated, clicking his tongue, “use discretion when talking about initiatives like the rehab program.”

Hermione frowned. “There’s already been a lot of press coverage about the rehab program.”

“And all of it has reported the message we’re trying to get across, Miss Granger,” he said, tugging at his tie. “The Ministry cares deeply about Wizarding Britain becoming a more progressive society. We’ve ensured we will start on that journey with the rehab program.” His words sounded like they were ripped off a governmental brochure. “We’ve been making _progress_ , and that’s what people need to know.” 

Hermione chewed on her lower lip, pausing to gather her thoughts. “I will make sure to represent the MRC to the best of my abilities, Director Hughman,” she said slowly, making sure to look him in the eye, “but I’m not going to lie about what I’ve been doing here.” 

Hughman gave her a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Miss Granger, I’m sure you understand that--” he started as Hermione stood up from her chair.

“I understand, Director. But I’m sure you understand where I’m coming from as well,” she said. “It was nice to talk to you. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No no,” he said, hastily gathering some papers together. “Right. Sure, of course. Have a good day of work, Miss Granger.”

“You too.” Hermione tucked the envelope into her purse before turning around. 

As she closed the office’s door behind her, Hermione felt strangely calm. The realization that she stood up for herself, for once, settled inside of her chest like a butterfly flapping its wings. If she had to, she would go, but she would do so on her terms.

_

Hermione was sitting on the outdoor chairs of the café next to the MRC, half full bowl of tomato soup sitting on the table in front of her. It was Harry’s day off, and she was wasting as much time as possible before she returned to their flat. _I’m not stalling_ , she thought to herself firmly. _I’m giving him privacy. It’s not that the walls of the apartment have felt too small for both of us recently._

Home meant tiptoeing around elephants and dealing with uncomfortable silences, these days. Like her and her best friend were existing in completely different frequencies.

She looked at Harry and she yearned to reach out to him, desperate to make things clearer, to regain a resemblance of the comfort he once gave her. But something paralyzed her every single time she psyched herself up for a conversation. Maybe it was the knowledge that he didn’t approach her, either, and worse, that he didn’t even look like he wanted to.

She was holding a copy of _The Serpent Wire_ , a magazine that Blaise Zabini founded a few months after the war ended. Hermione knew she wasn’t Zabini’s target audience -- neither Slytherin nor pureblood -- every issue Hermione had purchased was more out of morbid curiosity than real interest. But now and then, its coverage surprised her. An article by Sarah Spudmore discussed the implications of Harry’s promotion in an insightful and surprisingly impartial way. Back in Hogwarts, she would have never suspected that Zabini would be her source for alternative media. 

“The Gryffindor princess reads _Serpent Wire_?”

Hermione lifted her eyes slowly, finding Draco Malfoy’s smug face. He wore a pair of jet black sunglasses, the color of the frames contrasting against his pale skin. Hermione grimaced in distaste. _It’s not even sunny out._

“Someone was giving it away near the fireplaces,” she replied coolly, watching as he grabbed a chair from an empty table behind him. “Oh, please, why don’t you sit?” 

“Oh, thank you,” he replied, relaxing into the chair, “I assumed you only read publications that blow smoke up your arse. Like every other magazine, but that one.” 

“That sounds more like you than me, but then again, there’s no magazine talking highly of you these days, is there?” said Hermione. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? I’m trying to have lunch, and your face is making me lose my appetite.”

Malfoy scoffed. “In this dreadful place? The food here tastes like a troll’s ear wax, Granger. You’d be better off eating the Hog’s Head’s soggy chips. But you having an undeveloped palate doesn’t surprise me. You've probably been fed the Weasley’s scraps for too long to recognize flavor.”

“If you’re here to insult my friends, you better go before I hex you into next week.”

Malfoy just chuckled in response. “Don’t you get tired of defending those peasants?” he said.

Hermione looked at him skeptically. Malfoy was... bantering with her. Despite their words, there was no real bite to them. It was like he was entertaining himself by baiting her, as if he didn’t know how to do anything else. She couldn’t remember ever having a conversation with him that didn’t carry an angry undertone. It was baffling, and it made her jiggle her foot in nervousness. 

“Did you seek me out, Malfoy?” she asked, closing the magazine and placing it on top of the table. 

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself, Granger,” said Malfoy, taking off his glasses and hanging them on his robes. “I was in the MRC for a mandatory program evaluation with Cartwell. You’re not that special.”

Hermione pursed her lips. ‘I didn’t know Cartwell called you for individual evaluations.”

“Oh, our resident swot doesn’t know something? It must be a cold day in hell.” He smirked when she wrinkled her nose. “I read some of that book you had that sorry excuse of an owl drop at my house. Do you own that thing, Granger? The poor creature looked half blind, making it fly anywhere should be considered animal cruelty.”

“I hired that owl from The Diagon Alley’s public owlery,” she said, mildly offended by the accusation, “You read the book?”

“I just said that.” They stared at each other for a full minute, neither willing to be the first to continue the conversation. 

_This is ridiculous_ , Hermione thought, then forced the question out. “So, what did you think?” 

Apparently, Malfoy was just waiting for her to ask. “I have no idea what that postmodernism or illuminism shite is supposed to be but, frankly, I’m appalled to know Muggles dislike people over silly things like one’s skin color.”

“Aaah,” Hermione squinted her eyes. “Can you imagine one person discriminating against another for something they can’t control?”

“I wasn’t making a comparison,” he snapped. “I was merely commenting on the fact they’re clearly uncivilized beings.”

“Dark-skinned muggles were enslaved for centuries. They were tortured and raped. It was horrendous,” said Hermione, watching his reaction. “My ancestors were taken from their homes and cultures and brought into the British colonies to serve, and then die. My grandmother’s own grandparents were children of slaves, she used to tell me stories about it.” 

“That’s simply barbaric, Granger,” said Malfoy, sounding genuinely appalled. 

“I don’t doubt Voldemort would want to do something similar to muggleborns.”

Malfoy didn’t answer immediately. Hermione watched his Adam’s apple bob when he swallowed. 

“What was the point of giving me the book, Granger?” he said at last. “It just went on and on about identities. Felt a little soft, a little theoretical for a swot like you.” 

“You still read it, though,” sighed Hermione. “I thought you could relate to the bits about fractured and contradictory identities.”

“Pardon me?” he said, sounding surprised. “I don’t have a fractured identity.” 

“Well, here you are, supposedly a bigoted pureblood, chatting with a muggleborn about war crimes.” He opened his mouth to respond, but she continued before he could interrupt her. “I’m not saying that you’re _not_ a bigoted pureblood, but you also gave me -- sorry, _lent_ me -- a book that I’m certain your family wouldn’t want someone like me touching.”

“I think you misinterpreted my--”

She went on. “You were supposed to be a ruthless Death Eater, but you didn’t kill Dumbledore when you had the chance, did you?”

Malfoy just looked at her. “You need to quit projecting your holier-than-thou, savior of the dark and twisted school-girl fantasies onto me, Granger.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she snapped. “I’m just saying, you fit the description, but if you’re so offended by my assumption, forget I said anything. You’re really sensitive for someone who has ‘judgment’ as a personality trait.” 

Malfoy looked away from her, pointedly finding the passersby more interesting than their conversation. Hermione picked up the magazine, figuring she had annoyed him enough he would get up and leave.

Hermione kept her eyes fixed on the page in front of her, but she wasn’t registering anything she read, too aware of him to concentrate on anything else. She felt a buzzing under her skin, an overwhelming urge to look up and stare him down until he finally broke the silence. When he finally stood up, Hermione let out a breath that felt like she had held it in for hours.

Malfoy didn’t say anything to her as he left, and Hermione allowed herself to take her eyes off _The Serpent Wire_ . She dragged her forgotten bowl of soup towards her, muttering a warming charm and scooping a spoonful of the thick red liquid into her mouth. _The git was right_ , she thought, _this is probably what a troll’s ear wax would taste like._

“Bloody hell, Granger, are you actually eating that thing?”

Hermione was so startled she dropped her spoon into the bowl, making drops of soup splash all over the table and, to her shame, down her chin.

Hermione grumbled under her breath, reluctantly accepting Malfoy’s engraved handkerchief. “You’re as graceful as a herd of centaurs,” he said, nose scrunched in disgust.

“You startled me!” she said, waving her hand towards the mess. “Go away, Malfoy.”

“Did you read the book I gave you?” he said.

Hermione let out a sigh she purposefully dragged for longer than necessary, trying to show him she was extremely put off by his attempts at conversing with her. “I might have.”

“That means you did.”

“Oh, like you know anything about me.”

“Do you get off on being contrary?”

“Look who’s talking!” she barked.

Hermione told herself to leave. _But this is the first interesting conversation you’ve had in who knows how long_ , her inner voice piped in. _Bantering with him is harmless, and might actually be entertaining._ Hermione squared her shoulders as she stared back at him. Malfoy held a cup of coffee in his hands.

He grinned when he saw her looking. “Do you want one?” 

“Are you offering?” she asked.

“Of course not, get one yourself. You have a job.” He actually laughed when he saw her face. The manners her mother installed in her were the only thing keeping Hermione from flipping Malfoy the bird. “About the book?”

Hermione licked her lips, tapping her fingers against the table --- she could apparate away, right then, and leave Malfoy to wonder alone. For another day, she could put off progressing on whatever strange timeline she found herself on. 

Hermione felt something nervous flutter in her chest. Their conversation made her think of starting a walk down an unfamiliar road -- it’d lead them somewhere, unquestionably. The realization was both thrilling and terrifying. 

She couldn’t define what it was that they were doing, but Hermione knew that talking to Malfoy felt like wading into a pool of water - she couldn’t tell if she was holding her breath yet. 

_Ah, fuck it_ , she decided. And, then, she said, “I read your bloody book.” 

The only way she could describe his smile was -- a hungry snake watching a wood mouse scurry across the forest floor. It was only a matter of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all liked this chapter and this progress in Draco and Hermione's interactions. I'm always thankful for everyone who leaves a comment and/or kudo, it makes my day every time!
> 
>  **Important note:** in light of recent events, I'm posting here the link to a platform with a series of important information about the BLM movement and how we can all help. I'd encourage everyone to spend a couple of minutes signing petitions, donating to different organizations if you can, or familiarizing yourself with the movement in case you aren't already. I hope everyone is keeping safe, healthy and that this story can bring you a bit of joy in the midst of chaos.
> 
> https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/


	7. Too Small for Hope or Promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise update! chapter edited by the amazing @jeparlepasfrancais

"The smell of him mixed with creosote, exhaust -- there, on the ground, slipping through the minutes, trying to notch them. Like taking the same picture over and over, the spaces in between sealed up (...) And **words, little words, words too small for any hope or promise, not really soothing but soothing nonetheless.** " - The Torn-Up Road, Richard Siken.

* * *

The Slytherins were already waiting in front of the Solarium’s entrance when Hermione arrived, most of them scowling, decidedly annoyed at being kept waiting. Nott waved as soon as she appeared.

“Nice of you to show up, Granger,” called Nott loudly. Hermione frowned. 

“I’m just a couple minutes late,” she said, then begrudgingly, “but I apologize.” 

As she hurried to take down the wards, Hermione felt Malfoy’s gaze burning a hole in her skin. She resisted the urge to look at him, preferring to ignore the strange fluttering low in her stomach.  _ You had one decent conversation, Hermione,  _ she berated herself _ , get your act together _ . 

“Please, go ahead,” she said after the last of the wards had come down. After all of them filed into the room, she entered behind them, taking the chairs out of her purse and enlarging them. “Why don’t you just leave them here?” asked Malfoy, taking one of the chairs. “Is there a furniture thief at large?”

_ Because I still haven’t told Cartwell that we’re in the solarium _ , thought Hermione grimly, still refusing to look at him. He chuckled when she didn’t respond. 

When all of the group had found their seats, Hermione picked herself a chair, setting it in her usual place in front of them. “Today, I wanted to talk about dark magic,” she said. 

“According to  _ Spellman’s Syllabary _ , dark magic is any type of magic that can be used to cause harm or exert control over others,” said Nott with a sly smile. Hermione wasn’t sure if he was impersonating her or not.

“I don’t need the textbook definition, but thank you, Nott,” said Hermione. “What I want to talk about is your relationship with dark magic. I think we’ve all experienced it, whether we’ve cast a dark spell or had one cast against us.” 

“Dark magic is just magic, Granger,” said Malfoy, his tone making it clear that he was stating the obvious. 

Hermione finally let herself look at him properly -- she needed to, if she wanted to get a semblance of the meaning behind what he said. Malfoy was always posturing, making things seem lighter than they really were. Nott did it too, in a completely different manner. 

When it came down to the core of it, Hermione thought only one of them seemed to be using it as a shield. “Care to expand?” she pressed, hoping he didn’t notice that she looked at his forehead rather than his eyes.

Malfoy let out a deep sigh. “Hogwarts, the Ministry, and the so-called light side have a superficial conception of what dark magic is supposed to be. Any magic is a magic that should be mastered, and like with anything, what matters is the wizard’s intentions.”

Hermione hummed in thought. “I can’t disagree, but it’s known that dark magic affects the wizards who use it. Dumbledore used to say that it damaged the soul.” 

“Typical of you to bring up that batty gaffer in a debate,” Bulstrode huffed a laugh, twirling a curl in her finger. 

Hermione forced down the urge to come to the late headmaster’s defense, then said, “I’m not trying to debate you. Like I said, I just want to understand how you relate to that type of magic.”

“What Malfoy here was trying to say,” intervened Nott, “is that there are ways to,  _ ah, _ how can I put it?” He scratched his non-existent beard. “Have a better control of how the dark arts affect you.”

“What do you mean?” asked Hermione, genuinely confused.

“Theo,” snapped Parkinson. “Some things are meant to be kept within certain circles  _ only _ ,” she muttered through her teeth.

“I don’t think there’s any harm in talking about it. It’s not like Granger is going to go around casting dark charms or brewing dark potions,” Nott shrugged, then turned to Hermione. “We’ve talked about how pureblood families have a connection to earth magic,” he said.

“That’s just a story,” said Hermione. 

“ _ You _ would think so,” said Malfoy, “but all of us were taught about the intricacies of magic and how we connect to it. We learned, at a very young age, how our self-conceptions affect our magic and the importance of strong mental shields” 

“I think that’s enough,” said Parkinson, shooting an infuriated look at Nott and Malfoy.

Hermione glanced at the group. Rookwood was oddly silent. If Hermione didn’t have him in her immediate line of sight, she’d be able to pretend he wasn’t even in the room. He kept his eyes fixed on the floor, his hand drawing invisible circles against his thigh, too intentional, to be a nervous habit. 

He was paying attention, she figured, he just didn’t want to say anything. 

“Are you saying you’re taught --  _ what, _ ” she said, searching for the right words, “a specific type of Occlumency to protect yourselves against the effects of dark magic?”

Malfoy looked reluctantly impressed, “If you believe that something belongs to you, that it’s a natural extension of you, can it truly harm you?” 

Hermione tilted her head to the side. “One would’ve thought Voldemort would’ve known about that little trick.” 

“Oh, he knew,” said Nott, “but then again, the Dark Lord wasn’t a pureblood, was he?” 

Hermione thought about Bellatrix Lestrange. She was pureblooded. But the way she moved, the strident tone of her voice, how everything she said sounded like a taunt, how her eyes were always wide, too wide for her to be completely sane -- Hermione didn’t think it was as faultless of a solution as they made it sound. 

“What Nott and Malfoy are  _ not  _ telling you,” said Rookwood, as if announcing his presence to the room. “is that when dark magic is used as it's meant to be used, there’s no reason for it to harm you.” Hermione turned towards him, seeing his eyes glued to her face.

“What are you on about, Rookwood?” said Malfoy.

“Some pureblood families never had to use mental shields to protect themselves against dark magic, because we know  _ why  _ we are using it in the first place,” he continued, “but then again, some of us think sharing pureblood secrets with a mudblood is acceptable.” 

“Maybe that's why most of your family went, you know,” said Nott, pointing a finger to his head.

“I don’t think--” started Hermione, but Rookwood interrupted her, his words coming quicker as he went along. 

“I’m not surprised,” he said, a threatening look in his eyes, “You want to understand our relationship with dark magic? We use it when we need to get rid of people like  _ you _ . When I was a child, my father would take us to the muggle world, just so we could see the kind of scum we are dealing with.” His eyes glazed over as he talked, like he wasn’t in the room anymore.

Hermione didn’t say anything to stop him. She couldn’t. She was too focused on trying to control the puffs of breath that were coming out harder and faster, like she had just finished a marathon she wasn’t fit to have started in the first place. She balled her hands into fists, trying to keep herself grounded.

“We wouldn’t do anything. We are not stupid. But we would imagine,” he continued, leaning forward in his chair. “My dad used to talk about the rush, about the surge of power, about the  _ rightness  _ that you felt in your body when you used a Crucio on a Muggle. Like we were finally paying our proper respects to the earth.”

“Rookwood, you need to chill the fuck out--” said Nott, or at least Hermione thought he did. Hermione’s blood was rushing to her ears, everything was starting to sound muffled, like they were underneath water. Rookwood’s eyes were the only thing she could see as she tried her hardest to get air into her lungs.

“Didn’t you feel it? When Bellatrix crucioed you?” he asked, spit spraying out of his mouth as he talked. “Oh, you don’t think we knew about it?” 

_ Night, gods, unbowed, unafraid, captain --  _ there was a chandelier in the room, hanging above her head. It would fall, eventually, she knew, it would kill her. It would make the pain vanish, it would take her out of there. 

“Rookwood--” said Malfoy, his voice echoing in her ears.

Rookwood talked over him. “We used to laugh about it. We all wished we had the opportunity. It was a competition, who could get to Potter’s mudblood slag first?”

But this place is too light, the sun illuminating the room was all wrong. Hermione shook her head, trying to clear it. His voice morphed, shrank, and stretched, sounding oddly like the shrieks she heard in her dreams. Nothing looked or sounded right, everything was strange. 

“You wanna talk about dark magic? Talk about how you felt when she used it on you, Granger. You probably felt like you were being put in your rightful place, for the first time. You knew it, didn’t you? All mudbloods know, no matter how much you fight it…”

_

“Ah, fuck,” said Theo.

The sound of the door slamming shut echoed throughout the solarium, silencing all one of them. 

Draco stared at the door, trying to prevent himself from doing something he’d inevitably regret later.  _ This isn’t your place _ , he thought.  _ Granger should’ve known better than to play with fire. This was going to happen eventually.  _

_ But she had known _ , he thought. There were limits they both knew better than to cross. 

“Are you daft?” said Theo, turning to look at Rookwood, “What were you trying to accomplish with this?”

“I’ve been itching to take the mudblood down a peg or two for weeks now. Most of us have been.” Rookwood let out a humourless laugh. “Why are you so pissed, Theo? You and Draco have been so chatty with her, I figured you were getting your money’s worth by getting a piece of her mudblood pussy, as disgusting as mixing with that animal is, but--”

Before Draco realized what he was doing, he was standing up. He cut the distance between them in two short strides. Rookwood stood up from his own chair, puffing out his chest. He was shorter than Draco -- not much, but enough he needed to raise his head to look him in the eye. 

“You getting brave with Granger is cute,” spat Draco, “but we all know that you spent the entire war begging your way up the ranks and cleaning up after your wacky-arse daddy and your dim-witted brother. No one took you seriously then, and no one takes you seriously now.” 

“You want to talk about my father? What would Lucius think about you defending that mudblood whore?” 

“He’d think I have more than two braincells, unlike you. Are you daft? Don’t you see the problem you’ve caused? What do you think is going to happen now? Granger is going to go straight to Hughman and the Ministry bastards, and you’re going to get your probation tripled. If I somehow get mixed in your bloody mess, I swear to Salazar you’re going to regret the second you decided to open your mouth.”

“Okay, that’s enough, lads,” said Theo, moving between them. “Come on, let’s get the fuck out of here,” he said to everyone else. “What, you want to be here when she gets back?”

The five Slytherins picked up their belongings and left the room. As they left, Pansy and Millicent bowed their heads together, whispering, occasionally throwing furtive glances at Rookwood. Before he disappeared down the hallway, Rookwood shot Theo and Draco a nasty smile. Draco rolled his eyes.

When the others had gone, Theo turned to Draco. “Mate, you should probably find Granger.”

“What are you on about, Theo? I’m not going after her.”

“We both know you’re not this pissed just because Granger is going to write that up in Rookwood’s file,” hissed Theo. 

“Theo, if you think this is the right time for your baseless insinuations, I’d think twice--”

“Okay, fine, if it makes you feel better, go find her and make sure she’s not going to implicate us in whatever the hell she does.” He grinded his teeth. “Better? Then get the hell out of here.”

“Why don’t  _ you  _ fucking go, then?”

Theo exhaled a deep sigh. “Me? Please. Granger would just hex my arse up.” 

_

She was sitting on the floor. Blood pounded in her ears. She shivered, the shaking taking over her body. She couldn’t grab her wand: her hands shook too much, she’d just drop it. She didn’t even know where it was. 

She wanted to apparate, she wanted to go home, she wanted her parents, but there was an arm holding her down and she couldn’t fight against it. She’d tried, for too long, she didn’t have the strength anymore. There was no use.

Bile was rising up her throat, she was choking. Her chest felt unnaturally tight, like there was a bear inside of it, pounding its fists against the inner walls of her body, begging to come out. She’d explode from the force of it. She knew it.

“Granger.”

She pressed her hands to her ears, trying to drown out the sound of screams around her, undulating baritones and sopranos.

“Granger, fucking hell.” 

The chandelier was going to fall, if she looked up, it’d smash her skull open. “Fuck Theo, I’m not cut out for this,” a voice whispered, Then, more firmly, “Granger, snap out of it.”

There would be blood everywhere, Harry and Ron would find her like that -- they would see the inside of her and the remains of her body. “Granger, I’m serious, don’t test my patience.”

They would see the word being carved into her skin. Her arm felt numb, unmoving, a phantom pain making her want to rip it off. Hermione was going to have to rip it off -- 

The sudden force of an open palm smacking her in the face made Hermione gasp, her eyes immediately watering. “Oh my god,” she said, pressing a hand to her stinging left cheek. “What? Oh my god.” She breathed out, her chest deflating like a burst balloon.

“Don’t kill me, I didn’t know what else to do.” 

Hermione’s eyes focused enough to see Draco Malfoy. He was crouching in front of her, his knees touching the floor. They were surrounded by grey walls -- they seemed to be in a storage closet, boxed in by shelves of office supplies. She didn’t remember getting there. 

“Did you slap me?” she murmured incredulously. 

“It’s not like I had a choice!” he exclaimed. He looked at her nervously. “You were having a fit, Granger, you were muttering nonsense and dry heaving. I heard you as soon as I turned the corner. I thought you were going to pass out.”

“And your solution was to smack me in the bloody face?” she said. 

“It worked, didn’t it?” he said, then stood up, brushing the dirt off his pants. “Well, if you’re all better, I’m just going to go.”

Hermione didn’t say anything, her palm slipping from her face. She stared at her outstretched legs; the room was so tiny that soles of her feet touched the opposite wall. Her chest was still burning, and she couldn’t believe Malfoy had seen her like this. 

She heard him sigh, then what sounded like his back slipping down the wall. He sat beside her, his right leg momentarily touching her left leg as he settled on the floor.  _ Malfoy sitting on a dirty floor,  _ she thought incredulously.  _ I never thought I’d see the day _ .

“Weren’t you going to leave?” 

He shrugged, which made his shoulder brush against hers. “Do you want a cig?” asked Malfoy.

“That’s a nasty habit.” Hermione made a face. “It gives you lung cancer, don’t you know?”

“You’re a goody-two-shoes even when you’re going mad, go figure,” he muttered, then grabbed the cigarette from behind his ear. He lighted it with his wand, which he slipped into his pocket before taking a drag. 

“I’m not going mad,” her voice sounded weak to her own ears, “I had a panic attack.”

“A what?” he asked, blowing the smoke from the corner of his mouth so it didn’t touch her face.  _ That’s nice of him _ , she thought. “Why are you staring at me?”

“A panic attack is an episode of intense fear. It causes a severe physical reaction,” she explained, ignoring his other question. 

“And you’re scared of what?” he frowned. “Augustus Rookwood? That’s ridiculous.”

Hermione felt a twinge of irritation.  _ But he can’t possibly know what it means _ , she rationalized. He was being nice, or the version of nice a Malfoy could muster. 

“Not of him,” she said. “His words reminded me--” she paused, “of other stuff.”

Malfoy turned to look at her. He stared at her for a couple of seconds. She didn’t know what he was looking for, exactly, but he seemed to have found it, because he just nodded and looked straight ahead again, taking another drag of his cigarette. 

“I smoked once,” she said, then her eyes widened,  _ what the hell am I doing?  _

“What?” Malfoy huffed a laugh. “You just went off on me about it.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” she said. “I was hardly going off on you, I just alerted you to the consequences of your actions. You might be young now, but your body will catch up--”

“Backtrack a bit, Granger,” he interrupted. “You just told me you smoked, then proceeded to lecture me about it? You’re a fucking hypocrite.”

Hermione wrinkled her nose. “It’s not like I made it a habit,” she said, weighing how much she should reveal. “I was in Australia a couple of years ago. I had to take care of some things there after the war,” she explained, seeing his curious look.“But, you know, it didn’t go as planned. I couldn’t manage to do what I needed to, and I was feeling frustrated--”

“So you smoked?” he arched a brow.

“I was sitting on a bench at Circular Quay, staring at Port Jackson like it had the answer to all of my problems,” she sighed. “I must have looked so pathetic, because this man just came up to me and handed me a cigarette. He said I looked like I needed it.”

Malfoy chuckled. Hermione smiled against her own will. 

“Did you enjoy it, at least?” 

“That’s the worst part!” sighed Hermione. “I couldn’t even finish the thing, I was coughing so hard.” Malfoy outright laughed at that. Hermione thought it was a nice sound. 

They remained in silence as Malfoy finished his cigarette, his gaze pinned to the wall in front of him. Hermione tried to do the same, but snuck quick glances at him whenever she thought she could get away with it. 

There was a tornado inside of her. Her head was buzzing with it - the aftershocks of her panic attack still running through her body, then her complete bafflement at having Malfoy there with her, actually managing to calm her down, in spite of himself. It was enough to make her forehead throb in a headache. 

“I can’t believe you actually slapped me in the face, Malfoy,” she muttered. 

“Yeah,” he agreed, “I can’t either.” 

Malfoy stubbed out the cigarette against the wall. He looked at the ground, seeming to be gearing himself up to say something, 

“Look, Granger. Rookwood was out of line, but--”

“If you’re going to defend him--” said Hermione, sobering up. 

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say!” barked Malfoy. “I was  _ going _ to say that he was out of line, but he’s a bloody bastard, so it’s not like you should be surprised.”

“Oh,” said Hermione, surprised. “Thanks, I guess.” 

Silence again. 

After some time, Hermione said, “Parkinson is pretty aggressive too,” mostly to see how he’d react.

“Yeah, but she isn’t cruel,” he sighed. “That’s not to say you should let your guard down around her. She’s a Slytherin.” 

“And I can let my guard down around you?” she asked skeptically. 

Malfoy stared down at her, “I’m not saying that either.” he said. When Hermione didn’t reply, he continued, “the best thing you can do right now is brush it off, let it die.”

“No way,” she said. “Fuck him. I’m reporting his arse to Hughman.”

He nodded. “Sure, you can do that,” he said, giving her a smarmy smile. “Or you can let him suffer. Start the next meeting as if nothing happened. He’ll be waiting for an Auror to burst in, maybe even Scar-Head, to come in and rough him up for fucking with you. Even Rookwood is scared of Potter. When that doesn’t happen, he’ll start to freak.”

“So I let him get away with it just so I can play a mind trick on him?” She frowned, “That’s not really my style.”

“Yeah, I know, and he knows that too. And I’m not telling you to not do anything, by all means, fuck him over. But make him sweat first, then act on it when he least expects.” He shrugged, then stood up, “That’s what I’d do, at least.”

Hermione looked up at him, still seated on the floor. She thought about the process to report Rookwood to Cartwell, then having to explain the entire situation to Hughman, who would inevitably have to notify a Ministry employee about it. Harry would find out, she was sure. 

She knew it was the right thing to do, and she’d do it, eventually, but the thought of going through those motions made her so physically exhausted, she could lay her head down on the floor of this supply room and fall asleep.  _ I will do it,  _ she argued with herself,  _ but there’s no harm in waiting a little while. I’m not doing it because Malfoy told me to _ . 

“Well?” he said, “are you going to stay here all day?”

“I’m not going back to the meeting,” she said. 

“Don’t be mad Granger, they’ve all gone home by now. You really think they’d wait for you?” He rolled his eyes. 

“It would be the polite thing to do,” she said, then slowly stood up, taking a step back when she almost ran into Malfoy. 

“We’re not exactly a polite bunch,” he muttered, then cracked the door open just a fraction. He hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering between the door and Hermione. “Do you feel better now?”

They exchanged stares. In Malfoy’s eyes, Hermione thought she saw the same unease that was stirring deep inside her chest. She didn’t know what any of it meant, or if it even meant anything. He was still Malfoy, even when it was getting harder each day to get a clear idea of what that implied. 

He made her curious - and Hermione didn’t know how to let go of things that made her curious. She’d poke at it, crack it open until she could unearth the secrets, until she could make sense of whatever it was supposed to be.  _ Malfoy is not a book, though _ , she thought,  _ he’s a person, a person I don’t even like _ . And wasn’t that the scariest thing on earth?

Hermione finally nodded at him. She thought he’d stay, if she said she wasn’t.  _ And wasn’t that even scarier? _

He nodded, then opened the door the whole way and left. He didn’t look back to see if she’d follow. She didn’t. Instead, she held the door half-open, staring at his disappearing back. When he turned a corner, Hermione finally opened the door and left the room. 

Before walking down the hall, she turned to look at the door -- she’d never be able to pass it without thinking about his platinum hair, shoulders rubbing against shoulders, and the mind-blowing realization that she was in over her head.

_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a hard chapter to write, but I love writing Hermione and Draco slowly being able to communicate without falling into arguments. There's something special about writing about people falling in love in spite of themselves. 
> 
> I'm posting two chapters in a row because I won't have access to my computer until a bit later next week, so the next update will probably come next Thursday. I hope you all liked this one <3
> 
> Every comment/kudo make my day everytime! Thank you so much.


	8. Not Surrender, but Trickery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter edited by the best beta @jeparlepasfrancais

"We smuggled ourselves into ourselves. Haunted by each other’s knowledge. **To hide somewhere is not surrender, it is trickery.** All day the snow falls down, all night the snow. **I try to guess your trajectory and end up telling my own story.** We left footprints in the slush of ourselves, getting out of there." - Landscape with Black Coats in Snow, Richard Siken

* * *

“Rook to D7,” commanded Draco, watching the green and silver piece move across the board. 

In response, the enchanted board moved its queen to F3. The figure grabbed her chair and smashed Draco’s knight’s head in a single fluid motion. The broken pieces of wood scattered all over his floor, the mess making him grimace. He cursed under his breath.

Playing chess against himself was usually a good way to clear his head. It was a healthier distraction than anything else he could come up with. 

It wasn’t working. 

He kept drifting back to yesterday’s meeting. _I shouldn’t have come at Rookwood like that_ , he thought. It didn’t matter that he never liked him -- unlike Bellatrix, he didn’t have to endure the Rookwoods’ derangement for the sake of family. 

It wasn’t enough reason for him to blow up like he did. Draco had made a pact with himself to keep his head down as much as possible, and here he was picking a fight at rehab. _And for what? Because you got pissy about Granger?_ he chastised himself. _I’m not even going to think about her._

He looked back at the chess board, pursing his lips as he tried to figure out his next move. Before he could do so, he heard a faint knock on the bedroom door. 

“Come in,” he called out. “What do you want, Minzy?”

The tiny elf shuffled towards him with her head bowed. Draco turned in his chair, trying to appear unthreatening. It didn’t take too much to send the elf into panicky shivers or self-inflicted pain. It was never pleasant to watch. i

“Master, the mistress requests you join her for dinner,” said Minzy. 

_Ah, fuck_ , thought Draco, _this is not what I need right now._ He immediately felt guilty. He could make himself have dinner with his mother a couple of times a week. 

“I’ll be down in a bit, Minzy. You can go now.”

“Minzy will go, then, master,” she nodded, then with a snap of her fingers disappeared from the room.

Draco let out a sigh. He stood up, pausing to check himself in the mirror before leaving. He quickly fixed the loose strands falling on his forehead, patting his hair down to make it look tidy and sleek. Maybe his mother wouldn’t complain that it was too long. 

_

Draco strutted into the dinner room, watching as his mother folded a napkin on her lap. “Minzy, get us some Turnip Wine, will you? It goes great with the salmon,” said Narcissa, gesturing towards the house-elf, who nodded her head eagerly before disappearing. “Ah, Draco. How have you been, sweetheart?”

“I’m fine, mother,” said Draco, squeezing her shoulder before sitting in the wooden chair across from her. “Just as always.” 

Before Narcissa could reply, Minzy appeared by her side, rushing to set crystal wine glasses in front of each of them. _Please don’t drop it_ , thought Draco, sighing inwardly in relief when the elf managed to avoid an accident. He nodded his head towards Mitzy in thanks. From the corner of his eye, he saw his mother curl her lips in distaste. 

“Every time she nearly drops the good crystal, I consider obtaining her replacement,” said Narcissa, shaking her head. Turning to Draco, she said, “I just worry about you, dear. I can’t imagine what they’re putting you through at the Ministry.”

“It’s fine, mother. Everything is more or less the same,” he shrugged, turning to his food. “I sit through those sodding meetings, then I come home and manage the estate. You know this.” He placed a piece of salmon in his mouth. The meetings made him think of Granger and her muggle book, margins smudged by the ink from her quills, still sitting on top of his desk. 

“You need to enjoy yourself more, Draco,” said Narcissa. “Especially after everything that happened to your father and I-”

“Can we not discuss father now?” he said sharply. Narcissa flinched, the smile vanishing from her face. Draco felt the familiar twinge of guilt low in his gut, “I apologize, mother. I must be more stressed than I thought.”

“That’s what I’m saying, sweetheart, you can’t go on like this. I do appreciate you being here with me as much as you are, but a young gentleman like you needs to have more of a social life.”

Draco licked his lips, thinking of the flat sitting empty in Wizarding London. He’d bought it a year ago, thinking he’d finally escape from the Manor, where the walls closed in more every day. It didn’t take him long to realize he’d been a fool to expect to leave. His mother needed him here, even if she wouldn’t admit it to herself.

“I do have a social life,” he protested. “I hang out with Theo a lot, and Pansy is always around.”

“Theo is a lovely boy, I’ve always liked him. And the Parkinsons are a very important family to be connected to.” Narcissa twirled the wine glass with one delicate hand, making the liquid swirl inside of the cup. “But it is important that we don’t alienate ourselves from the rest of society.”

“I don’t know what you mean, mother,” said Draco. “It’s not like there have been parties to attend. ” 

“Draco,” she started, “that doesn’t mean we can afford to forsake the close relationships we worked so hard to build with our people. In times like this we need to stick close together.”

“A lot of our people are in Azkaban, mother,” said Draco, being careful to keep his voice neutral, “and the rest of them are keeping their heads low, just as we are.”

“Draco, you know less than you think you do. Believe me when I say things won’t stay like this for long,” said Narcissa. “And it is my fault. I haven’t talked to you about it as I should have. We all just had so much in our heads during the trials. Your father--” She pressed her fingers to her temple. “Just thinking about it gives me a migraine.”

“Then let’s talk about something else. I saw that you’ve started growing a dandelion garden--”

“This is important,” she interrupted. “I’m sorry Draco, but it’s past time that we talk about the future. I’m not getting any younger, and I worry about leaving you like this.”

“I’ll be fine, mother. We have enough galleons in the Malfoy and Black vaults to last a lifetime or two. I think you’re stressing over nothing.”

“Don’t be foolish, son,” said Narcissa sharply. “Money is important, but it’s not the only thing that matters. What’s the use of wealth when the Weasleys of the world look down their noses at us? This isn’t how we've raised you to live.”

“I understand what you’re saying, mother,” said Draco, setting his fork beside his plate. “I’ve been going to the rehab program, I’ve donated plenty of money to war efforts, I’ve played along with everything the Ministry’s asked me to do. Short of kneeling at Saint Potter’s feet and begging for forgiveness, I don’t see what I can do to change the way people see us.” 

_You don’t want people to just think differently about us, mother,_ he thought, _you want them to think like us. And that’s not going to happen._

“Draco, sweetheart,” said Narcissa, in the same tone she used to use to explain why he couldn’t ride a broom, “pureblood culture has been standing strong since before any of us were born, and it will remain here when we are gone. The way things are is temporary, I can assure you of that.”

Draco took a sip of his wine. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe his mother, exactly, but more that he wasn’t entirely convinced that the Wizarding World would move in the direction she clearly expected it to. 

“I’m doing the best that I can where I can, mother,” he sighed, itching to leave the dining room. “It’s only been three years since the war ended. Maybe we just need more time to let the dust settle. I don’t want to turn us into more of a target.”

“Don’t be obtuse, Draco,” she snapped. “I didn’t help Potter during the final battle just to make the same mistakes all over again. What I’m telling you is to keep within our circles and associate with the right people so we can begin improving our reputation in the Wizarding community at large. Besides, there’s no more time. I received a letter from Stewart a couple of days ago. Your father hasn’t been doing well, Draco.”

“Of course he hasn’t been doing well,” he scoffed. “He’s in Azkaban.” 

“That’s not what I meant,” she sighed. “He’s been ill. We’re not sure what it is, yet. Perhaps it’ll be just a cold, something small that will pass. But we need to prepare for the worst case scenario.” She kept her eyes firmly on his. 

“Why is Stewart talking about this with you?” said Draco. “That sorry excuse of a lawyer. I’ve told him many times that anything about father should come to me first.”

“And I’ve told him to come to _me_ first,” said Narcissa. “That’s not what’s important here, Draco. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

 _I do,_ thought Draco, but he couldn’t let himself focus on it. He couldn’t let himself react in front of his mother, who expected him to be the unmoving force his father had always been. Lucius Malfoy never let himself be affected by frivolous things such as emotions, not even about his family. 

“I’ll talk to Stewart about getting permission to send a private healer to examine father properly,” said Draco. “There’s no way we can trust the evaluation of any healer who actually chooses to work at Azkaban.”

“That’s a good idea. But I also need you to focus on everything else that I’ve told you, Draco. This is important to me, and it is important to your father as well.” 

Draco nodded, feeling unsettled. _I have to set Stewart straight_ , he thought, _fucking overpaid, incompetent git, thinking he can go behind my back and ignore my orders. I’ll fire his sorry arse before he can stutter his excuses to me._

“I think I’ll go up to my study, mother,” said Draco, pushing away from the table. Narcissa held out a hand, making him pause. 

“I haven’t finished talking to you,” said Narcissa. Draco inhaled sharply, but settled back in the chair, “I’ve been meeting Asta Greengrass for tea, lately. We’ve had some interesting discussions.”

“You’ve been talking to Daphne’s mother?” he asked, confused. “We’ve never been close to the Greengrasses.” 

“We thought that it was past the time to change that.” Narcissa looked at Draco with a sudden smile, any trace of worry leaving her face. “Both of her daughters set the standard of what all pureblood girls should strive to be, Draco. Especially her eldest. I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her properly yet, but Daphne seems like such a sweet young lady. I couldn’t possibly think of a better match for you.” 

Draco frowned. “Daphne and I are just friends, mother,” he said slowly, “if you could even call us that. We mostly see each other when we hang out with Theo and Pansy.”

“That’s amazing, sweetheart, it means you know enough of each other to make the process much smoother. Don’t you agree that she is a beautiful girl?”

“Sure? She’s lovely,” said Draco, “but I don’t think--” 

“Draco,” she huffed, “think about it, okay? Maybe owl the girl and ask her to come for tea. I can have the clumsy elf arrange the tea room. Asta mentioned that Daphne loves dandelions, so I took it upon myself to start a new garden. You can show her the grounds. It’s even older than her family’s Manor, you know that? I’m sure she’ll be impressed.”

“Mother, I have absolutely no romantic interest in Daphne Greengrass.”

“But you do have an interest in helping this family, don’t you?” said Narcissa, arching a perfectly shaped brow. “The Greengrasses will be useful allies for us going forward, Draco. I’m not telling you to marry the girl tomorrow, but to get to know her.”

“I doubt this is going to work out the way you want to, mother,” said Draco.

“Do it for me,” said Narcissa. 

“I will consider it.” he muttered to appease her.

“Do that, sweetheart. I just want you to be happy, you understand?” She put her hand over his, squeezing his fingers for a moment before letting go. “Everything that I have ever done has been for the good of you and this family.”

“I know, mother.”

“I know you do,” said Narcissa, turning back to her own meal. “You may go now.”

Draco nodded, standing from the chair. As he made his way out of the room, Draco glanced at his mother over his shoulder, noting that she seemed perfectly content to eat by herself. 

_ 

Hermione was sitting on a chair in front of the flat’s dinner table, using a Muggle ballpoint pen to fill the words in one of her dad’s books of crossword puzzles. Crookshanks lay with his head on top of her foot, purring contently from under the table. 

“Oh, I haven’t seen one of those since I lived with the Dursleys.”

She jumped in the chair in surprise, making Crookshanks growl. He swiped his paw at her leg before gaiting away.

“Harry!” said Hermione, setting the book down. She glanced at the clock in the wall behind his head. “You’re home early today.”

“Perks of being a Department Head, you can sneak out early sometimes,” he smiled proudly.

“I thought you weren’t taking the position for another couple of weeks?” 

“Yeah, not yet,” said Harry, pulling back a chair and sitting down in it. “But I’m still shadowing Robards right now, getting the scope of things. He wants to make sure I know everything before he leaves.”

“Has he told you what he’s going to do after that? I doubt he’s retiring.”

“He’s not retiring, Hermione. He has plans,” he sighed. “Nothing that I can talk to you about.”

“That’s how it’s been lately, hasn’t it?” said Hermione, ignoring the inner voice who said she hasn’t been forthcoming with Harry, either. 

“You said you weren’t upset about me not telling you about the promotion,” said Harry. “I’ve already told you that I had strict orders to keep quiet about it.”

 _But you told Ron and Ginny,_ she thought, then ignored that voice too. “I’m sorry, Harry,” she said. “It’s been a long day. I didn’t mean it. Let’s forget about it, okay? Do you want to do some puzzles with me?”

“Oh, no. I hate those things. Mr. Dursley used to be obsessed with them, but he was so daft, he never managed to finish a single one.” He let out an exaggerated shudder. “Can you guess how he dealt with his frustration?” 

Hermione smiled sympathetically at him, closing the book of puzzles. “I’m sorry that happened to you, Harry.”

Harry lifted his shoulders in a shrug, “I’m over it.” 

Hermione wondered how you could be _over_ something like that. If it was that easy for Harry to brush away everything he went through, to raise above it, shouldn’t she be able to do it, as well? _I haven’t gone through half of what he did_ , she thought, _but look at him, and look at me._

“Besides, they were never my family,” he continued. “Ginny, Ron, you and all of the Weasleys. You’re the ones that matter.”

“Well, I’m sure the Dursleys would be impressed by everything you’ve accomplished, anyway.” 

“Maybe,” he said. “It doesn’t really matter.” 

Hermione hesitated for a second, licking her lips. “You can talk to me about the job, if you want. How did Robards offer you the position?”

“He’d been giving me more solo assignments the past few months, you know? I used to complain all the time that he wasn’t pairing me with Ron, but I think it was his way of figuring out if I was ready for the job.” 

“That’s smart of him.”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Now that I think about it, maybe I should’ve figured out sooner that’s what he was doing. Kinglsey actually called me up to his office a couple of months back. He said I should think really hard about my plans for the future, because I might have to make some tough choices. At the time I just figured he was trying to mentor me, or something.” 

Hermione frowned, thinking the information over in her head. “Why would Shacklebolt warn you like that?”

“What are you thinking?” asked Harry, observing the expression in her face, the same when she was trying to solve an arithmancy problem. 

“Well, I don’t want to assume,” said Hermione hesitantly. “I just had the impression that everything was kind of quick, you know? But you know more than I do, obviously.” 

“I think Kinglsey was just trying to be nice, Hermione. Maybe he thought I’d need time to prepare for it. But it’s not like I would turn down a job like that. I love being an Auror!”

Hermione wondered if Harry understood that the job meant more than just being an Auror, but figured it wasn’t her place to mention it. 

“You know, _The Serpent Wire_ published this article speculating that Robards is going to run the next election for Minister,” said Hermione. “Maybe that’s why he’s leaving the job.”

“Why are you reading that trash, Hermione?”

“I like to be informed, Harry, and I can’t grab a copy of _The Daily Prophet_ without finding an article about my non-existent relationship with Ron,” she huffed. “It gets old. But Harry, is Robards going to run the election?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you sure?” she asked. “There’s no reason you can’t tell me. It’s not like I’m going to tell anyone about it.” 

“Why would I lie, Hermione?” he insisted. “He just told me that he needed my support in the future. He didn’t give me any details, and I don’t really care.”

“Doesn’t it sound like he’s trading one favor for another?”

“You think he’s doing me a favor by giving me this job?” he said, sounding offended.

“That’s not what I meant, Harry,” said Hermione, annoyed that they kept misunderstanding each other. It was like she and Harry were talking in completely different languages. “There’s no reason to get defensive. I’m just telling you to be smart about this. If Robards is running in the election, doesn’t it seem weird to you? I mean, Kingsley’s running for reelection, you’d figure Robards would support him instead of trying--”

“I think you’re speculating too much,” said Harry, standing up. “That’s your problem, Hermione, you can’t ever just relax. You have to poke and poke at things that don’t even matter.”

“That’s my problem? I poke too much?” snapped Hermione, feeling a spark of anger. . “You didn’t mind me speculating about things when it helped you, Harry, so what’s changed?”

Harry sighed, pressing his fingers to his eyelids. He took his hand away from his face. “I don’t know why we’re even arguing anymore, Hermione. But this needs to stop.” 

_We’re arguing because you don’t like some parts of me,_ thought Hermione, _and here we are living in the same apartment together_. 

“I think we’re getting our wires crossed, Harry,” said Hermione, trying to tone down the anger bubbling up inside of her, “I’m not trying to rain on your parade, I was just curious about your job and what’s going on at the Ministry. I want you to be happy. I’m just worried about you. I’m not--”

Hermione didn’t know what to say to make him understand -- _I can't be there to look out for you, but I’m trying,_ she thought. She couldn’t explain to him how she felt like things were getting more and more out of her control every day. Maybe she never had that control. 

On top of it, Hermione had the strange feeling that the world was moving in a direction that she didn’t understand. Harry, too. Her problem was that she didn’t know how to ask him to explain -- _I didn’t think I needed to,_ she thought. 

“I know, Hermione,” said Harry, suddenly sounding tired. “But honestly, there’s nothing big going on. Stop reading that magazine, it’s just speculation. Do you remember how we used to talk about what we wanted to do after the war? I know what I want, Hermione. I want Ginny, and maybe some kids, and I want to be able to make that happen properly, to support them. The quiet, the happy life? Ron wants that too.”

Hermione tried to ignore the implication in his last words. She didn’t think she ever wanted the _quiet, happy life_ that Harry was talking about. When she thought about her future, Hermione had always envisioned being and doing something more. 

Perhaps her ideas of _more_ had changed, and she had gotten lost in the way there, _was still lost,_ but she hadn’t stopped wanting it. 

Hermione didn’t think Harry wanted a quiet life, either. _Maybe he hasn’t realized it yet, but he’s ambitious too._

“I know,” she said, because she didn’t think Harry would take it well if she didn’t agree. “And I’m sure you’ll get it, and Ron too.”

“And _you_ will, Hermione. Just take it easy, okay?” She nodded, forcing a smile as he walked over to her, hesitating for a second before kissing the top of her head.

Hermione didn’t look up at him as he left. Instead, she dragged the crossword puzzle book towards her. She thought about how her father used to pull her tiny body into his lap to help him fill them out, reading the words out loud and deliberately mispronouncing them to make her laugh. She used to ask him about the meaning behind each of them, then she’d inquire about the hows and the whys, she’d insist until her father breathed out an amused laugh, saying she was too curious for her own good.

Her dad didn’t know how to explain some things to her, but that never bothered Hermione -- not when she was just a child questioning him about words, nor when she grew up and started questioning everything else, too. 

Now, Hermione filled in the words by herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yall, I'm sorry it took me awhile to come back with this chapter. 
> 
> My week was super busy and I didn't have the time. We're back on schedule now, I promise. I got so many amazing comments last update, my heart is full and super happy. Thank you everyone who took the time to leave a kudo and/or their thoughts on the story. You make all the difference.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this one, and am excited to hear what you think!


	9. He pointed at the moon, but I looked at his hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter beta-ed by the amazing @jeparlepasfrancais.

" **He was pointing at the moon but I was looking at his hand.** How do I tell you how I got here without getting trapped in the past? I suppose that’s a bigger question than I expected (...) **_We are all of us secret agents, undercover in our overcoats_ **, the snow falling down." - Anyway, Richard Siken. 

* * *

Hermione stared at her reflection in the restroom’s mirror. She was bare faced, as always. Her skin was light brown from the sun, with a few scattered freckles on the bridge of her nose. She had tied part of her curls in a tight knot on top of her head to keep it out of her eyes, but the rest of it fell over her shoulders, bushy as ever. 

“Just another day,” she murmured to herself. “I’m not going to let him intimidate me.” 

Hermione allowed herself three seconds to breathe, then she swung her purse over her shoulder and tightened a hand around its strap. Before her nerves got the best of her, she left the restroom, walking in quick, sure steps towards the Solarium, aware that she had already stalled too long. 

“I know I’m late, Nott,” said Hermione, pretending not to notice her charges’ expectant looks. Before Nott could think up a response, she waved down the wards and opened the door, stepping back for them to pass. 

“Okay, then,” said Nott, grinning. As he brushed past her, he mock-whispered to Malfoy, who was following behind him, “Someone is in a mood.”

 _“I can hear you,”_ snapped Hermione. She was surprised when Malfoy didn’t join in the opportunity to taunt her. 

As she followed the group into the room, Hermione avoided looking at Rookwood. She didn’t want to show him any inkling of fear. But from the corner of her eye, she watched the way he shifted uncertaintly in his chair, like he was waiting for the pin to drop. _Exactly as Malfoy said_ , thought Hermione.

“Last meeting we had an interesting conversation about dark magic,” said Hermione. When none of them responded, she continued. “I thought we should continue talking about it today.” 

“Do you ever give up, Granger?” said Parkinson, clenching her jaw.

“Not what I’m known for,” said Hermione. “Besides, why not?” she shrugged. “When Nott and Malfoy talked about Occlumency last time, I got curious and did some research. But I didn’t find anything on the subject.”

“You did research? What a surprise,” said Parkinson. Bulstrode snickered. 

“Why don’t you talk more about your relationship with dark magic, Parkinson? I mean, you and Bulstrode haven’t been exactly forthcoming,” said Hermione. She turned in her chair, waving a hand in Rookwood’s direction. “And even Rookwood here shared his thoughts.” Rookwood’s only response was to sneer at her, though she saw him shoot an anxious look at the door. 

“I don’t care about dark magic,” said Bulstrode. 

“What do you mean by that?” asked Hermione. She narrowed her eyes at Nott when he chuckled. “Bulstrode? Can you explain it?” 

Bulstrode shrugged mindlessly. Hermione waited for the group to say something, _anything_. As each second passed in silence, she grew more and more frustrated. Not even Malfoy -- who Hermione had come to expect to interact with her -- seemed interested in participating in the conversation. 

Rookwood alternated between staring at the door and staring at Hermione, suspicion in his eyes and lips curled in a grimace. He was clearly jittery, but it didn’t stop him from sneering at her. Parkinson and Bulstrode were doing their best to ignore her, content to stare at their nails in feigned fascination. 

Nott, unsurprisingly, seemed to be the only one willing to talk. Hermione intertwined her fingers on her lap, suddenly exhausted. 

“Malfoy? Nott? Do you want to talk about it?” 

“Well, if you insist,” said Nott, crossing one leg over the other with a grin.

As he launched into a detailed explanation of dark magic, Hermione struggled to pay attention. She was distracted by her attempt to look unaffected by Rookwood’s presence, even though being in the same room as him triggered her _fight-or-flight_ response. She forced herself to keep her posture straight in the chair, unwilling to appear too relaxed. She didn’t want to look like prey. 

And at the same time, Hermione was _unsettled_ by Malfoy’s silence. She watched him sit in his chair, head down, hands in his pockets. _He finally shut up and I’m bothered by it?_ She thought, wary of her own feelings. 

She knew it wasn’t just his silence. She wouldn’t feel so troubled if Malfoy was ignoring her to get a rise out of her. But today he didn’t seem fully present -- he occasionally looked in her direction, but kept his gaze fixed on a point on the floor in front of him, a slack expression on his face. She was sure that if she said his name, he wouldn’t respond. 

He was acting like he did with Cartwell, and Hermione wasn’t used to it. She didn’t _like_ it. 

“Granger, are you even listening?” said Nott.

“Of course, you were talking about your family’s grimoire,” said Hermione, hoping he didn’t ask her to be more specific. “Please, keep going.” 

“He’s not even saying anything important,” said Parkinson, “he’s talking just to make noise.” 

“You know what, Pans? I’m kind of sick of your attitude,” snapped Nott, turning in her direction.

“You’re sick of _my_ attitude? I’ve told _you_ a thousand times--” 

Hermione glanced at Malfoy again, cataloguing the way he tapped his foot absentmindedly. 

“Do you guys want to talk about what’s bothering you?” she asked, wearily turning towards Parkinson and Nott. 

“It’s none of your business,” hissed Parkinson.

“In fact, I do--” started Nott.

_ 

At the end of the meeting, Hermione felt like she’d spent the past hour in a couple’s therapy session instead of court-mandated rehab. Every time Nott tried to engage with her, Parkinson snapped at him, and suddenly they’d launch into an argument that mostly went over Hermione’s head. She knew she could’ve done a better job at keeping a rein on things, but her heart wasn’t in it, either. 

“Hey, Malfoy, can you hang back for a bit?” asked Hermione, still unsure what she was planning to say to him. 

She half expected him to keep going, to pretend that he hadn’t heard her, like he had done for the past hour, so she was mildly surprised when he stopped in his tracks, turned on his heel, and approached her. 

“What do you want, Granger?” asked Malfoy, standing a couple of steps away from her. “I haven’t got all day.”

Hermione cleared her throat, fidgeting with her hands as she forced herself to say, “What’s up with you?”

“Excuse me?” 

“You didn’t say a single thing at the meeting today. And you know that I’m not like Cartwell, if you think you can get way with lazing your way through--”

“You know what?” interrupted Malfoy. “Just shut up. Millicent barely opens her mouth to do anything besides repeat whatever Pansy says like a bloody parrot. You didn’t seem bothered by Rookwood not saying a single word today, either, and you’re asking _me_ to hang back so you can get on my arse about it?” Hermione flinched in surprise. “What?” he said, a vein in his neck throbbing. “Now you’re not going to say anything? Can’t argue your way out of the truth?”

“I just asked because you’re usually more--” She hesitated. “open.” _And because you seem absent-minded, and angrier than usual_ , she thought. “I thought maybe there was something on your mind.” 

Malfoy ran a hand through his hair, avoiding her eyes. “The only thing on my mind is you pestering me, Granger. Just leave me alone.” His tone sounded flat, lacking its usual force. 

“You know what? Fine,” said Hermione. “You can leave then, Malfoy. I don’t even know what I thought I’d get by being nice to you.”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “I think I will,” he said, sounding a little uncertain. Hermione waited, sure he would say something else, maybe ask her what she was trying to do. For a second, she’d been sure he was going to engage her, but then his face returned to its usual sneer, and he stomped out of the room. 

As Hermione stared at his disappearing back, she felt a sense of wrongness nagging within her. _Malfoy’s acting too strangely_ , she thought. Hermione couldn’t guess his motivation for helping her the other day. Despite their history, he’d sat beside her in a cramped supply room, talking until she felt calm enough to leave. _Maybe he thought it’d help him get released from the program_ , she thought, but still, he had _stayed_. 

And she had let him leave. If she could help him, shouldn’t she? _Or, you can mind your own business like he told you to,_ she argued with herself. 

“Ah, bloody hell,” she muttered, rushing to follow him out of the room. She closed the Solarium’s door behind her, casting an anxious look at the chairs before figuring she could come back for them, later.

By the time Hermione finished putting up the wards, Malfoy was already far down the corridor. She cursed under her breath, scurrying to keep up with him. 

She accelerated her pace when he turned the corner -- there were a few MRC employees loitering nearby, so she couldn't call his name without calling attention to herself. Hermione followed as he made his way down the stairs, struggling to keep up with his long strides. She tightened a palm around the handrail to keep her balance. The last thing she needed to do was lose her balance.

Malfoy abruptly stopped, and Hermione let out an undignified yelp when she ran into his back. She stumbled when he turned around, her hold on the handrail the only thing keeping her upright. 

“Why are you following me, Granger?” said Malfoy, sounding as amused as he was irritated.

“I’m not following you, for Godric’s sake,” said Hermione, watching as Malfoy’s eyes flickered between her and the stairs, as if debating his escape, “You’re so dramatic.” 

“Oh?” his head snapped towards her, “ _I’m dramatic?_ You’re the one on a crusade to get me to talk to you. This school girl act is not flattering, Granger.” said Malfoy, slowly moving away from her. 

“Everytime I think I can have a conversation with you without it turning into a fight, you make me regret-”

“I know I’m attractive,” he talked over her, finally stopping in his tracks, “but this whole thing seems kind of desperate for a witch like you.

Hermione stuck her nose in the air, “Please, Malfoy. It’s kind of sad how delusional you actually are. That’s not why I was looking for you.”

“So you admit you’re stalking me?”

“Stalking is a strong word, you knew all along that I was right behind you,” she huffed, “I’ll leave you alone if you really want, but you seemed strange today.” She held out her hand to stop him when he opened his mouth to respond. “I heard what you said about Rookwood and Bulstrode, no need to repeat it. You helped me out the other day, and I figured that, if you wanted, I could help you out too.”

“Oh, Granger-” he started to chuckle, “you’re nosy as hell. And annoying. You just can’t help yourself from meddling into other people’s business, can you?” 

“I’m just trying to return a favor,” she said, “but I’m going to change my mind if you’re going to stand here and insult me.” 

“Save it,” said Malfoy. He crossed his arms, “I don’t need any favor from you--” 

“Okay,” said Hermione, starting to back away. 

“And I’m not your bloody friend,” he continued, as if he hadn’t heard her. He took a step forward for each step she took back. “How could you even help me? If you think I’m going to cry my heart out for you like a baby, then you’re mistaking me for Weasel and Scar-Head--”

“I literally just said okay, Malfoy, save your breath. I’m going home.” 

“You think just because we had two semi-decent conversations that I want to waste my down time with you? You say I’m conceited, but your ego is as big as mine.”

“Oh, really?” she asked amusedly. She stopped retreating, watching as he continued to step closer to her. 

“I don’t want to spend any time with you--”

“Are you sure?” she arched a brow, pointing her thumb to the stairs behind her, “because I was just trying to leave--”

“Aren’t you hearing what I’m saying? You are meddling, unbearable--”

“Oh, I’m hearing you alright,” she muttered. When Malfoy got close enough, Hermione grabbed his bony wrist, not giving him enough time to push her back before she apparated them both out of the building. 

_

“You’re a lunatic, Granger!” exclaimed Malfoy, voice high in surprise. “Where the hell are we?”

Hermione let go of his wrist, but grabbed the sleeve of his robes, dragging his body towards an empty alley. He grumbled indignantly, yanking her hand away from his clothes. 

“Come on, we can’t be seen wearing these robes,” said Hermione.

“This is kidnapping,” snapped Malfoy, “I’m going to report you to Cartwell. No, actually, I’m going straight to Hughman--”

Hermione rolled her eyes, taking her wand out of her pocket and quickly transfiguring her robes into a long-sleeved black dress. She adjusted the hem of the skirt, then raised her eyes to look at Malfoy, who was looking around as if he expected someone to emerge from the shadows and jump him. 

“Stop being fussy, Malfoy, I gave you plenty of time to walk away before I apparated us.” 

“That’s a bloody lie,” said Malfoy. “Don’t point your wand at me, Granger, what the hell?”

Hermione lowered the wand. “I need to transfigure your clothes if we're going to hang around here. We don’t want any unwanted attention from Muggles,” she said. 

“Are we in Muggle London?” he hissed, “Granger, you’re really testing me today, and it’s not going to end well for you, I can assure you.” 

“I got your number, Malfoy, you’re not fooling me,” said Hermione, rolling her eyes. “Apparate home now, if you really want to. I’m going to enjoy my day either way--”

“Is that supposed to make me change my mind?”

Hermione continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Or, you can come with me and get your mind off of whatever it is that’s bothering you so much.”

Malfoy didn’t say anything, but his eyes didn’t leave hers. She was surprised when he stepped closer to her, for the second time that day, forcing her to retreat until her back hit the brick wall. Hermione’s breath got stuck in her chest. The corners of his lips twisted, like he couldn’t decide if he should be smirking or sneering at her. 

“You think dragging me to this dreadful place is going to change my mind about your kind?”

“I honestly didn’t think about it that way,” said Hermione. “I just came to the first place I thought of, no secondary intentions. But maybe it’ll do you some good. Maybe,” she said, standing taller, “you’ll realize there’s more to Muggles than you could ever imagine.”

“You’re seriously delusional,” he said, stepping away from her. The sudden distance between them allowed Hermione to breathe.

“Like I said, you can go home. I’m not going to insist.” 

Malfoy arched a brow, looking doubtful. 

Hermione gave him a last lingering look. When he didn’t show any reaction, she turned on her heel, making her way down the alley. 

Hermione’s mouth arranged itself into a satisfied smirk when she heard footsteps behind her. 

“Slow down, Granger.” snapped Malfoy. Hermione didn’t respond, resisting the urge to turn towards him. “I know you can hear me,” he said, following her as she turned the corner towards Primrose Hill. 

Hermione smiled when she saw the park. It was just past midday, so it wasn’t overly crowded, but had enough people walking around to offer a strange type of comfort. The sun was shining bright, atypical for Britain, and if she walked all the way up the hill she’d get a panoramic view of the city’s most memorable sights. 

“You’re going to make me walk _and_ ignore me?” said Malfoy. 

Hermione finally stopped, turning to look at him. She noticed he had transfigured his robes to look like a pair of black trousers and a dark grey cotton shirt. “Decided to grace me with your presence?” she said.

“I figured if you are so eager to be around me, I might as well.”

Hermione huffed a laugh, rolling her eyes. “You’re so typical,” she said. “Come with me.” 

She began walking, but at a slow enough pace for him to fall in an easy step beside her. Hermione glanced at him from the side of her eye -- Malfoy observed the scene around him with a furrowed forehead, his eyes widening as he watched a woman push a stroller.

“This is what you wanted me to see?” he asked, lips curled in distaste. “Trees and muggles? I’m curious to know where you got the impression that this would interest me.” 

“This is one of my favorite spots, actually,” said Hermione. “My parents and I used to spend entire afternoons having picnics here, then we’d walk up the hill and watch the sunset. It’s also a really good place to people-watch.”

Malfoy snuck a glance at her, seemingly uncomfortable at her willingness to share information about her Muggle life. Hermione didn’t know why she was doing it. Part of her was afraid he would mock her, but a stronger part wanted him to see things from her point of view.

“Did you--” He cleared his throat. “Did you live around here? Before you found out you were a witch?”

“Oh, no,” she giggled, “this is actually a very expensive area. My parents were dentists. It’s a respectable profession, but it doesn’t pay _that_ well.”

“Your parents were what?”

“They fixed teeth,” she clarified.

“That’s the strangest thing I have ever heard.” said Malfoy, scrunching up his face in an over-the-top expression of disgust. Hermione struggled to control a laugh. 

“Somehow I doubt that,” she said as pointed towards a group of men jogging. “Do you see that, Malfoy? Those are the people you think are barbaric, doing such strange things, like jogging and walking their dogs. You should write a book about how it endangers pureblood culture.” 

Malfoy gave her a loud, fake laugh. “You think you’re so funny, don’t you, Granger?”

“You want to know what I think?”

“I’m sure you’ll tell me regardless of how I answer.”

“I think,” said Hermione, ignoring his _I-told-you-so_ look, “that most prejudices are born out of fear, Malfoy. And before you interrupt me to say that you’re not afraid of anything, I’ve read your family’s book, and it doesn’t hide the fact purebloods are pretty scared of what muggles and muggle-borns can do.” 

“There’s a huge difference between fearing something and seeking self-preservation,” said Malfoy, “not that you would know about it. Your sort loves to mistake cleverness for cowardice.”

“My sort?” asked Hermione pointedly.

“Gryffindors,” he muttered.

“Maybe,” conceded Hermione, “but I don’t think there’s anything sadder than letting fear run your life for you. I’d rather be stupid and brave than constantly afraid.”

Malfoy didn’t say anything as they neared the top of the hill. Hermione was content to leave him to his thoughts. He didn’t seem troubled; it was more like he was taking everything in, cataloguing all that he could so he’d be able to judge things for himself. Hermione didn’t want to let her optimism blind her, but everytime she saw him consider what she said with seriousness, rather than contempt, she couldn’t help but feel a little spark deep in her chest.

When they reached the top of Primrose Hill, they stopped side by side. Hermione’s shoulder brushed against Malfoy’s arm. She stilled, waiting for him to step away from her. 

He didn’t. 

“What is that monstrosity?” asked Malfoy, pointing towards the huge wheel they could see in the distance. 

“Oh, that’s the London Eye,” said Hermione. “It’s a huge ferris wheel. It was built just a few years ago, but it didn’t open to the public until last year. I haven’t ridden it, but apparently it has the highest viewing point in all of London.” 

“A ferris wheel?” he frowned. “Who’s Ferris?”

Hermione suppressed a chuckle. She shifted her weight, thinking about the best way to explain it. “Well, as you can see, it’s a huge round structure. There are cabins attached to the outer edges where people sit and watch the view as the wheel turns.” 

Malfoy looked at her with a mixture of bewilderment and fascination. “How the bloody hell do Muggles keep that thing turning without magic? How do they even keep it upright? Isn’t that a safety hazard?” he asked in rapid succession. He rubbed his chin, staring hard at the London Eye as if he could uncover all of its secrets with the force of his glare. 

“Muggles don’t need magic to create fantastic things, Malfoy,” said Hermione. “I don’t know the specifics, but they use engineering to make it work. It’s a beauty, isn’t it?”

Malfoy pursued his lips, looking uncertain. “It’s like you’re speaking Greek,” he said finally, “but I’ll admit that it’s a rather interesting contraption.” _Figures,_ Hermione thought, _that’s the best I’m getting out of him._

As they stood side by side, observing the city stretching out in front of them, Hermione felt contentment. They didn’t speak, but the silence felt comfortable. Her mind was clear, and Malfoy seemed to relax for the first time that day. 

When they started climbing down the hill, unsure of what their next steps were, Hermione turned towards Malfoy, hesitating before asking the same question he had asked her, just days ago. 

“Do you feel better now?”

Just like she had done, Malfoy didn’t answer immediately, staring ahead as they continued strolling through the park. Hermione kept her focus on his profile, watching his jaw twitch, observing the intake of his breath -- he rubbed his thumb and index finger together in little circles. 

When she was about to avert her gaze, Malfoy nodded, almost as if it was against his will. 

_

Draco was surprised he hadn’t splinched himself apparating into the Manor’s foyer. He figured his airtight memory of the house must have gotten him home successfully, since his focus was more than a little fuzzy. 

He had left Granger in the same alley where they had arrived in Muggle London, the atmosphere around them rather awkward as they mumbled goodbyes. His every instinct told him to make a snide comment about her wasting all of his afternoon, but something about the way Granger looked at him -- like the new state-of-being between them was as fragile as a piece of glass, and he could break it if he made any sudden moves -- stopped him. 

Part of Draco did want to shatter it, until he felt more sure of the ground he stood on, but a bigger -- almost unrecognizable -- part of him wanted to leave it, to see what shape it would take if he let it stand there. 

As he walked towards the stairs, the sound of his mother’s heels clicking against the floor shook him out of his stupor. Draco had quick enough wit to transfigure the Muggle clothes back to his dark robes before she appeared from a nearby door. 

“Draco,” said Narcissa, stepping closer to him, “what took you so long to get home?” 

“It’s not like you to keep track of my whereabouts,” said Draco, lowering his head to kiss her cheek. 

“Well, you usually come home straight after those meetings. I only found it strange you didn’t, this time.” 

“Theo and I went out to grab lunch afterwards, I lost track of time,” he lied,.“Did you need me to do something for you?”

“Oh, nothing specific, sweetheart,” said Narcissa, a sugary smile on her face. “I was just eager to tell you about this new restaurant that opened in Hogsmeade, _The Ghost Orchid_. It’s actually owned by the Rosiers, it’s supposed to be rather exclusive.” 

“Oh,” said Draco, “do you want me to make a reservation for us this weekend?” 

Narcissa waved her hand. “That’s no place to take your mother, sweetheart. It’s a rather romantic spot, more fit for you and a pretty girl. I’m sure Daphne Greengrass would be happy to go with you, if you were to invite her.” 

Draco sighed. He had mostly forgotten about his mother’s matchmaking, too focused on his father and the fact Stewart still hadn’t owled him the final diagnosis. He had met with the lawyer a couple of days ago, most of it spent yelling at him for disregarding his orders. Stewart was annoyingly unfazed, but was at least quick to get permission to arrange a private healer’s visit to Azkaban, as Draco had requested. 

Since then, Draco’s mind had been spinning in a loop of every worst-case scenario, trying to prepare himself properly for each of them. It destroyed his appetite and soured his mood. It wasn’t surprising that taking Daphne Greengrass to dinner was the last thought to cross his mind. 

“Mother, with everything that’s happening with Father, I don’t think it’s the right time for me to start anything with the Greengrasses.”

“That makes it the perfect time, Draco, we need something good to cheer all of us up. Your father would be so happy if he knew you were courting one of Asta and Douglass’ daughters.”

 _I wondered when they started being Asta and Douglass instead of the Greengrasses,_ he thought, suppressing his urge to groan in annoyance. 

“I think Father should worry about his health, not about who I might or might not be dating.”

The soft look in Narcissa’s eyes was replaced with a stern expression. “Draco, I’m not having this conversation with you again. Why don’t you listen to me, for once? You’re making things harder than they need to be.” She sighed. “I have so much I’m preoccupied about these days, sweetheart. This would give me such peace of mind.”

Draco’s shoulders sagged as he ran his eyes over his mother’s face. He felt a weight on his back, dragging his mood down and ruining any contentment he might have felt not long ago, when he stood next to Granger as she babbled about a Muggle contraption he couldn’t care less about. 

“Of course, mother.”

Narcissa’s smile returned, and she raised a hand to pat him softly on the cheek. “That’s my boy.”

He nodded, squeezing her hand before gently removing it from his face. As he made his way up to his room, Draco itched for a drink or a cigarette, anything that made the Manor feel less like a fist closing around his throat. 

When Draco arrived in his room, there was a large, dusky-colored Stygian owl perched on his window’s sill. He grabbed the envelope from its beak; when it didn’t immediately fly away, he offered it a treat. It clearly had gotten instructions to wait for a response. 

He ripped the evelope’s seal, reading the short note before grabbing a new piece of parchment and a quill. He quickly scribbled a response, placing it inside of the same envelope. 

After the owl flied away, Draco laid down on his bed, pressing his fingers to his throbbing temple as he pondered if it was smart to tell his mother he had just agreed to a dinner date with Daphne Greengrass. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the best time writing Hermione and Draco's dynamic shifting. I hope you liked this interaction between them. Thank you so much to everyone who has left a kudo, bookmarked and took the time to drop a comment on this story. Reading your responses makes all the difference <3


	10. Hope and a Handful of Strategies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter edited by @jeparlepasfrancais

" **I’m not suggesting the world is good,** that life is easy, or that any of us are entitled to better. But please, isn’t this the kind of thing you talk about in somber tones, in the afternoon, **_with some degree of hope and maybe even a handful of strategies?_ **" - The Definitive Version, Richard Siken 

* * *

Draco pushed open the restaurant’s door, adjusting the lapel of his suit as he approached the maître d’. The young woman smiled enthusiastically as soon as she spotted him, greeting him before he could introduce himself. 

“Bonsoir, Monsieur Malfoy, bienvenue à la _Ghost Orchid_ , ” said the woman in an atrocious imitation of a French accent. Draco curled his lips in disdain, watching her blonde ponytail bob at each word. “My name is Lavignia. Your companion is already waiting for you!”

“ _Merci Beaucoup_ , Madame Lavignia, c'est un très beau restaurant, ” said Draco, pronouncing each word carefully. He smirked when the woman’s face flushed in embarrassment.

Draco walked in the direction the maître d’ pointed him towards, taking in his surroundings. The Ghost Orchid was as high-end as his mother had described. Its white and gold walls were adorned with charmed paintings of the most exquisite plants and flowers in wizarding Britain, and the main dining area was made up of a small array of round glass tables, ensuring the guests privacy and exclusivity. As he walked, Draco noticed that the ceiling lamps were shaped like the restaurant’s namesake, yellow flickering light peeking from between white petals. It was a charming establishment, but the highly romantic atmosphere made him itch to turn around and go home.

Draco spotted Daphne’s dark hair immediately. As he approached, she looked up at him, as if she had sensed his presence, lifting her hand in a shy wave when her eyes met his. Draco smiled carefully, reaching the table in several quick steps. 

“Hello, Draco,” said Daphne, standing up to greet him with a quick peck on the cheek. 

“Hey, Daph, how have you been?” said Draco, pulling out the chair across from her. He sat down, his gaze focused on the gold vase placed between them. 

“I’ve been alright. I hope you don’t mind, but I already ordered some scotch,” she said, making him look up. She offered a teasing smirk. “I figured we’d need the liquid courage.”

“I don’t make a habit of drinking,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “But you’re right. I didn’t take you for a fan of scotch, though. Every time we hang out you and Pansy favor any disgusting sugary beverage you can get your hands on.” 

“I tend to go with the flow, but I don’t discriminate when it comes to alcohol,” Daphne rested her chin on her hands, slightly leaning over the table.

Draco hummed, watching the waiter approach them. He greeted Draco in a more subdued manner than the maitre’d, and with much better French, setting the glasses in front of them and pouring a generous amount of scotch. “Are you ready to order?” he asked.

Draco glanced at Daphne -- he hadn’t had a chance to look at the menu, but it wouldn’t bother him if she went ahead. She only shook her head, and the waiter smiled politely before leaving. 

“This place is a bit overkill, don’t you think?” said Draco, hoping her reaction would give him an indication of where she stood. Daphne had invited him, and suggested the place, but he didn’t want to come out and say he thought the entire thing was more awkward than it was worth. 

“What? The low, golden lights and the abundance of flowers aren’t sufficiently romantic for you, Draco Malfoy?” she said, chuckling when Draco frowned. “I would’ve suggested The Three Broomsticks, but a pub doesn’t really _screams_ first date, does it? And my mother--”

“Your mother has been pestering you about this, too?” asked Draco, taking a sip of his drink.

“Just like Narcissa, I imagine,” said Daphne. She wetted her lips, looking uncertain for the first time since he had arrived. 

“Look, Daphne-” he paused, searching for a gentle way to say it, “you’re a lovely woman, and anyone would be lucky to get your attention, but I don’t really--” 

Daphne held up a hand. “I’ll stop you right there. Our discomfort over this entire thing is obviously mutual.”

“I’m glad we got that out of the way,” sighed Draco in relief. “I would’ve said it when I replied to your letter, but our mothers are very relentless women.” 

“Tell me about it,” nodded Daphne. She took a large gulp of her scotch, then grabbed the bottle to refill her glass. “Do you want more?”

“I barely drank my first glass,” he chuckled. “I hope my presence hasn’t already driven you to drink.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I think of you as a friend, even if we’re not that close. I’m just a bit anxious. Like I said, my mom has been pushy, and I was kind of worried you were actually interested--”

“Rest assured, I’m not,” said Draco with a bemused smile. He grabbed the menu for the first time and read over the selection. “Oh, the Rosiers try too bloody hard. An entirely French menu? Could you get more cliche?”

“They do love to flaunt their French roots. As if it wasn’t the same for most of us.” She set down her half-empty glass. “I do agree it’s over-the-top, but I heard the food was good, at least.”

“The lamb does look nice,” said Draco, then signaled for the waiter. “A bit overpriced, though.”

“Since when do you care about money, Draco?” asked Daphne. “I never saw you hesitate to drop money on a number of useless things, let alone food.”

“I’m just saying, they have some gall to rip us off for inauthentic French cuisine,” he replied. “Maybe you could make a snide comment about my frugality to your mother. It’ll be enough reason for her to tell you to run for the hills.”

“As if.” She clicked her tongue. “Unfortunately, she knows very well the Malfoys aren’t hurting for cash. Our mothers have been talking a lot lately, haven’t you noticed? They have a standing date for tea every Tuesday afternoon.”

“I heard,” said Draco with a sigh. As soon as the waiter appeared, he rattled off his order, waiting as Daphne did the same. Once the man left, Draco turned to her again. “Listen, do you think there’s any chance this’ll die down sooner rather than later? I think if I stall long enough, my mother will probably give up. She never cared about my love life before, so I’m not sure why she’s interested now.”

“She knew you and Pansy dated, didn’t she?” 

“Pansy and I were children, Daphne, and we fizzled off quickly,” said Draco. “She didn’t seem too interested. Which is strange, considering she started dating my father when they were in Hogwarts.” 

“Didn’t all of our parents?” Her green eyes glistened. “Just because they all tied the knot by eighteen doesn’t mean we have to follow their footsteps. I’m barely twenty-two, and I have no intention of getting married any time soon.”

“Bloody hell,” he said, “your mother is already talking about marriage?”

“Isn’t yours?” asked Daphne, biting her lip in aprehension. “When I say she’s been _pushy_ , I’m not joking, Draco. She subscribed me to _Witch Bride_ , it’s not exactly a subtle hint.”

Draco shuddered. “My mother hasn’t tried that one yet,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “But I should’ve guessed it was coming. Everyone in our circle except you, me, Pans, and Theo started courting right after the war.” 

“She’s been dropping little hints for years,” said Daphne, “but now that your mother is involved, I think she’s gotten her hopes up.”

Draco exhaled loudly. “I really don’t have time to argue with my mother about this,” he groaned. “I’m going to have a final conversation with her tonight. She’ll know that we tried with this little _date_ , and I can emphasize our incompatibility.” 

“I don’t think that’s going to work, Draco.” Daphne paused when the waiter approached with their meal, offering him a dazzling smile when he put their food on the table. She waited for him to leave before continuing. “I know my mother, and when she sets her mind on something it's impossible to change it. I even tried to talk to my father about it, but he’s in agreement with her.”

“My mother will listen to me,” said Draco confidently, sounding more sure than he felt.

“That's great for you,” said Daphne, “but I _know_ my mother won’t listen to me. My parents are very traditional people, Draco. Especially my mother.”

“We’re purebloods, Daphne,” huffed Draco. “Tradition is everybody's middle name.” 

He watched Daphne delicately nibble her _coq au vin_ , dabbing her mouth with the cloth napkin. Draco agreed with his mother -- Daphne was the embodiment of the Pureblood standard. Her grace seemed natural and effortless, but Draco knew it had been drilled into her from the moment she was born -- be polite, say thank you, take small bites -- there was no room for her to be anything else. 

“There are no Greengrass sons, Draco,” said Daphne, her expression faltering. “My parents love Astoria and me immensely, I have no doubt. But the Greengrass family is patriarchal,, and always has been.”

“So they’re eager to marry you off because there isn’t another man in the family?” asked Draco, trying to bite down the urge to say how ridiculous it all seemed to him. Every pureblood family had its own traditions, but still. 

“It’s more than that,” she said. “You know that my family has a chair in the Wizengamot, correct?” She waited for him to nod. “It’s been vacant since my grandfather passed away over a decade ago. My father won’t take it, and Astoria and I can’t because we’re female. But with no one in the Greengrass chair, it’s been hard for my family to be as politically influential as we were before the war. ”

“Your parents want to make a business transaction,” said Draco dully. _And I’m the one they’re recruiting for the job_. “I have no interest in or patience for politics, Daphne. That should be enough to cross me off your daddy's list of suitors.”

Daphne sighed, pushing her half-eaten plate away from her. Draco did the same, leaning forward in the chair to give her his full attention. She seemed concerned for the first time, tucking a strand of golden brown hair behind her ear. Draco drummed his fingers against the table as he waited her out, then sipped his scotch, the liquid burning down his throat as he swallowed. 

“If it’s not you, it won’t be long before they find someone else,” said Daphne finally. “Can you imagine me having to court a Rosier? They make your family look unpretentious, _no offense_ ,” she said, waving a hand at his scowl. “But just look at this place.”

“Screw the Rosiers,” chuckled Draco. “I heard Enoch Rowle is fresh out of Azkaban, maybe you could owl him. Or maybe the youngest Selwyn? I think Zander turned nineteen not too long ago, that’s not too bad of an age gap. You're too young to be considered a cougar.”

“Draco, I don’t want to marry any of those men,” said Daphne. She shuddered, her cheeks flushing., “In fact, I don’t want to marry _any_ man,” she admitted.

“That’s unusual, but not unheard of, “Isn’t the oldest Fawley daughter unmarried? Some people find it odd, but it’s not the most scandalous thing to ever happen in pureblood circles.” 

“Feye Fawley has the mind of a twelve-year old in the body of a woman in her thirties,” said Daphne, looking offended. “She needs a caregiver, not a husband.” 

“The Fawleys do treat her like she’s worse than a squib,” agreed Draco. “Look, I’m not going to lie to you. You probably can’t avoid marriage forever.” He knew, as much as Daphne did, that being married was less about their happiness and more about the survival of their pureblooded heritage. 

“I’m not saying I don’t want to be married,” she said insistently. “I’m saying I don’t want to be married to a _man_.”

Draco guzzled the rest of his scotch. 

“ _That_ will be a problem,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t care, obviously. But I expect your family will.”

Daphne glared at him. “I’m not telling just anybody about this, alright? You’re the only person besides Astoria who knows, Draco, I trust you to be discreet.”

“Do you think I give a damn about gossip, Daphne?” he said, offended. “There's nothing for me in it, I'm not going to sell you out.”

“I know,” she said. She sighed. “It would be fine if I wasn’t a pureblood”

“But you are,” said Draco.

“My father would disown me without a thought if he knew about it,” she continued. Her expression was neutral, but her shaking voice betrayed her feelings. “I love my family, and I want them to be proud of me. But my mother would never look at my face again. They wouldn’t let me near Astoria.”

“So what’s your plan, exactly?” asked Draco. 

“I could pretend, you know? I could court with someone long enough for Astoria to get married. She’s turning seventeen in less than four months, and she’s always been interested in the youngest Carrow, gushes about him every time he returns from Beauxbatons. She wouldn’t even be unhappy, Draco, my sister is different from me,” sighed Daphne. “She wants everything that my mother does. I’m their focus now because I’m the oldest, but that’ll change once Astoria is old enough.”

“Except I don’t see many lads feeling content with being strung along for who knows how long, only to be dumped at your convenience,” he said. 

“Of course,” she said. She raised her eyes to look right at him. “Except for you.” 

“What are you proposing?” asked Draco, who already knew what she was about to say. 

“We could court,” said Daphne in a serious voice. “Only for appearances, of course. To appease our parents. It’d be a win-win, Draco.”

“Do you understand how mad my mother would be if I made her believe I was seriously dating you and then went and broke things off after a while?” Draco shook her head. “I’m sorry, Daph, but that’s too messy.”

“Come on, Draco,” pleaded Daphne. “We’ll make sure to tell them we’re just dating, no need to promise intent of anything but that. And I’ll take the blame when the time comes. You can tell her I strayed, or can’t have children, or anything else that’ll make her glad you got rid of me.”

“I don’t know, Daphne. I get your point, but it seems too risky, especially if your mother is talking about weddings before we even went on the bloody first date,” said Draco. 

“But it won’t be for long,” she said quickly. “Like I said, Astoria will enter an official engagement with Carrow as soon as she’s of age and he returns home for good. My father will have the wizard he needs to represent the family, and my mother will get a grandchild to focus on. They’ll be too thrilled with Astoria to care about what I’m doing, and I might not be here, anyway.”

“You’re going to leave the country?”

“America is much more liberal than Britain.” She shrugged. “It seems like a good place to go. Not permanently, of course, but at least for a little while.”

Draco grabbed his empty glass, staring at its crystal facets as he considered his options.

“If we are going to do this, we’ll have to be careful about what we tell them,” said Draco, twirling the glass in his hand.

“Of course,” agreed Daphne. “We’ll do just enough to make your mother happy, and for me to stall my parents until I think of a long-term solution.”

Draco weighed his options. He knew that Daphne would get more out of their deal than he would, but it wasn’t without its benefits. It would sooth his mother’s worries about his future, guaranteeing she’d let him out of her clutches for however long their fake courting lasted. He’d have a built-in excuse to leave the house. And maybe his mother would actually be happy for a change.

Unexpectedly, Draco thought of Granger. It’d been only a couple of days since she’d dragged him to Muggle-land, but it felt like a lifetime ago. He’d bet a thousand galleons she would be appalled at Daphne’s suggestion, _the bleeding heart that she is_. Granger would tell Daphne to ignore her parents and be herself, and she’d push Draco to be courageous about setting boundaries between him and his mother. 

The thought made him suppress a smile. Granger couldn’t navigate her way through pureblood politics if her life depended on it. She was naive. She didn’t realize that snakes didn’t bow to a lion’s roar: they crawled their way out, stalling until it was the right time to strike. It was what set Granger apart from every woman he grew up with.

Draco finally set the glass down the table and signaled for the check. Before the waiter reached them, Draco offered Daphne a sly smile. 

"Well, I guess I should start calling you girlfriend.”

_

Twenty-four hours later, Hermione stood in front of her bathroom’s mirror, cursing under her breath as she struggled to tame her curls into something slightly more presentable. Years of brushing off her classmates’ offers to teach her basic beauty charms were finally coming back to bite her. What she wouldn’t give for a bottle of Sleakeazy’s. 

She gave up, setting her wand on the corner of the sink before leaving the bathroom. “Haaaarrrryyyyyy,” she called, flouncing down the hallway to his room.

“In here,” he said loudly. Hermione didn’t bother knocking, pushing open the door to find him adjusting the sleeves of his formal robes. Harry turned to face her, “Why aren’t you dressed, Hermione?” he groaned. “We’re going to be late. In fact, I’m pretty sure we already are.”

“You clean up nicely,” said Hermione, leaning against the door frame. “When does Ginny get here?”

“She was supposed to be here an hour ago,” said Harry, looking at his watch, “so I’m guessing she’s taking as much time getting ready as you are. Aren’t the English supposed to be punctual?”

“I doubt she’s struggling like I am,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Stop being so fussy, you know how these things go. They say it starts at seven expecting everyone to arrive at eight. Will you tell Ginny to come to my room when she gets here? I need her help with my hair.”

“What’s wrong with your hair?” he frowned. “Leave it like that and just put on your robes.”

“You’re such a boy, Harry,” said Hermione, smiling at him. “Just tell her what I said, will you?”

“Alright,” he said, “I’m going to use the Floo to check on her, but please, I beg you, go get ready. At this rate there won't be a party for us to go to.”

 _I wish that was the case,_ thought Hermione, When she returned to her own room, she closed the door behind her and carefully grabbed the dress robes she had placed on her bed before showering. 

As she slipped the gown over her body, Hermione felt a twinge of insecurity. She’d successfully avoided most formal events for the past few years -- going meant unwanted attention and small talk with people she hadn’t met, yet felt certain they knew her intimately from whatever they read in the media. It was always disconcerting. She doubted St. Mungo’s anniversary celebration would be much different. 

Hermione stepped inside the bathroom again, adjusting the dress around her body as she turned to check herself out in the mirror. The dress was a pretty thing, something that had been in the back of her wardrobe for so long she had forgotten even buying it. It was made of navy blue silk, conservatively cut: tight at the waist but loose around the hips. Its neckline, a subtle vee, came together just above her breasts, and the hem stopped just at her ankle. Long, slim sleeves cloaked her arms to her wrist. The whole dress was spangled with silver crystals, flowing down her body like liquid crystal. Every time she moved, little sparkles scattered across the floor and adjacent wall. Maybe it was too much.

“Merlin, that’s a pretty dress,” said Ginny, announcing herself as she entered the bathroom, “you look like you’re wearing your own galaxy. Harry said you needed my help?”

Hermione turned to greet her. Ginny wore a long-sleeved red satin dress. The gown had a slit running up its right side, exposing one toned leg. Her lips were painted deep red and her long locks were swept to the side, falling in waves down her cleavage. 

“You look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” said Ginny, retrieving her wand from the holster attached to her tight. “My goal was to make Harry swallow his tongue when he saw me, and my mission was accomplished. Now, about you, do you want your hair up or down?”

“What do you think?” asked Hermione.

“How about a knot?” Ginny didn’t wait for a response before waving her wand in a figure-four, braiding Hermione’s curls and tying the braids neatly in an updo. She expertly ran a finger through Hermione’s baby hairs, letting two loose curls fall in each side of her face. “Now I think Ron will be the one swallowing his tongue.” 

“Oh, Ginny,” sighed Hermione. “Thank you, my hair looks beautiful. You made it look so easy.”

“It is easy, you just don’t care to learn,” said Ginny, checking Hermione from all angles before deeming her work finished. “Let me put some makeup on you? I know you have some in here, we bought a bunch when we went to that Muggle shop in Manchester.”

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but closed it after Ginny narrowed her eyes at her. She sighed, allowing her friend to paint her lips, fill in her eyebrows, and apply mascara to her lashes. 

“I think that’s enough,” said Hermione, stepping back as Ginny lifted her arm to apply silver glitter to her eyelids. 

“It’s more than I thought you’d agree to.” Ginny shrugged, turning to put the array of products back in their designated places. “Now, let’s go before the boys get tired of all the waiting.”

“Ron is here?” asked Hermione. “Is the entire Ministry going to be at this party?”

“What do you think, Hermione?” chuckled Ginny. “This is the first formal event we’ve had in months. I know that at least most of the DMLE got invited. Harry made sure. Apparently Robards taught him the importance of networking.” 

“Of course he did that,” muttered Hermione under her breath. “Hughman made it sound way more exclusive when he forced the invitation on me,” she said, following Ginny out of the room.

“Who is that, again?”

“He’s the MRC director.”

“Oh, right, did you mention him before?” asked Ginny, her voice trailing off as they entered the living room. 

Ron was sitting on the sofa, locked in a stare off against Crookshanks, who was seated in front of him. 

“Hey, Ron,” she greeted him, nudging her cat away with her foot. Her friend jumped at the sound of her voice, turning abruptly towards her. Ron didn’t say anything as he took her in, his lips slightly parted and a dazed look in his blue eyes.

“Okay,” drawled Ginny, glancing from Ron to Hermione. “I’m going to get Harry so we can go.”

Hermione fidgeted uncomfortably, resisting the urge to follow Ginny. It had been a long time since Ron’s attention made Hermione feel anything other than awkward. But, it felt nice to be looked at like that.

What would Malfoy say if he saw her dressed like that?

A shiver went up her spine. _Stop it, Hermione_. 

“You look amazing, Hermione,” Ron finally said, stepping closer to her. 

“Thank you,” she said.“Are you excited for the party?” 

“Sure, I guess. It’s free drinks and free food, what’s not to like?” 

Hermione smiled. “You? Motivated by free drinks and food? I never could have guessed,” she said. “This event is more than an excuse for us to take advantage of taxpayers' money, Ron. St. Mungo's 400th anniversary is a big deal in the wizarding community. It’s the oldest wizarding hospital in Europe.”

“If you say so,” he said distractedly. “Did I mention that you look amazing?” 

“You did, and I said thank you,” said Hermione. “Didn’t you bring a date? I know you got a plus-one.” 

“Harry told me you were going, so I didn’t bother asking anyone.”

“Ron,” she said, “I’m representing the Mental Rehabilitation Center. This is basically a work function for me.”

“You’re not going to be working during the _entire_ party, Hermione,” said Ron. “I bet we can steal a few alone moments to catch up, like I asked you a while ago, remember? And maybe we can dance a little bit?”

Hermione tugged at her sleeve nervously. “You know that the press will be there. We wouldn’t want them to get the wrong idea.”

“What would be the wrong idea?” asked Ron. “Everyone knows that we’re close, I doubt they’ll be surprised to see us together.” 

_You know exactly what I’m talking about_ , thought Hermione. “Oh, you know how people like to read into things,” she said.

“Hermione, I just want--” he started, but got cut off by Harry and Ginny’s reappearance in the living room. He let out an exasperated sigh. “Now you chose to be ready?”

“Yes, mate. Finally!” said Harry, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the room. “We’ll floo in first and then wait for you guys at the entrance, okay?”

Hermione nodded, watching as they headed towards the fireplace. She waited for the couple to disappear before saying to Ron, “You can go first.”

Ron hesitated a beat before grabbing a pinch of the powder, turning his body towards her. “Will you save me that dance, Hermione?”

“I’ll try,” she lied, “but I can’t make any promises.”

He didn’t seem satisfied by her words. He gave her a smile that didn’t reach his eyes before turning and throwing the emerald powder into the fireplace. Hermione tried to ignore simultaneous pangs of guilt and apprehension -- she hated pushing Ron away, but she knew she had to put her foot down. And she knew that he wasn’t going to be deterred so easily. 

Hermione stepped inside of the fireplace, rattling off the address out loud. With a puff of smoke, she was gone. Maybe she would be busy enough to avoid denying him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! This chapter is more plot heavy, but the next one has one of my favorite Dramione interactions! I can't wait to post it for you. 
> 
> I got amazing responses last chapter, it made me super happy and motivated to write quickly for this story. I'm super grateful for every kudo/comment/bookmark, you make all the difference ♡ let me know in the comments what you think of Daphne and Draco's deal, and Ron and Hermione's dynamic!


	11. In a Rabbit Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here I come with another update. I made a pinterest board with inspirations for this chapter, so you can check it out
> 
> [ here ](https://pin.it/4qdIGs4)
> 
> Chapter edited by @jeparlepasfrancais

“Here I am in a rabbit run, here I am in a valley of pine, waiting for you to find me.  **I could pretend I’m speaking to everyone** —assume a middle distance and transcend myself—but  _ I’m talking to you and you know it. _ ” - The Long and Short of It, Richard Siken

* * *

Hermione blinked repeatedly as her eyes struggled to adjust to the flashing lights of cameras clicking in her direction.

She exhaled a deep breath, then ran for it, lifting her dress so she didn’t step on the hem as she rushed towards the building’s doors where her friends waited for her. 

“They’re crazy out there!” exclaimed Hermione. 

“You know how it is,” shrugged Harry, intertwining his fingers through Ginny’s as they stepped into the hall. “At least there won’t be as many in the actual party. I’m pretty sure only  _ The Daily Prophet _ 's photographers are allowed inside.” 

“That doesn’t make me feel much better,” said Hermione, following them. “Do you know how many letters I’ve sent Padma just this past year? I’m sick of complaining about all the lies in those bloody articles of hers. At least we knew Rita Skeeter was out to get us. Padma is supposed to be our friend.”

“It’s just harmless gossip, Hermione,” said Ginny, chuckling at Hermione’s exasperation. “That’s pretty much her job description nowadays.” 

“That doesn’t mean we should just  _ take  _ it,” said Hermione, her arm brushing against Ron’s as they made their way down the corridor leading to the ballroom. “Serious journalism is a real thing, you know? In fact,  _ The Serpent Wire _ is doing a better job of it than-”

“Ah, no,” interrupted Harry, “this is a party. No complaining here, Hermione. This is supposed to be about free drinks and free food. We’ve all agreed!”

“Cheers to that, mate,” said Ron.

“Okay, I’ll stop,” grumbled Hermione. She glanced at Ron. “I hope you bought a Sobering Potion. Merlin knows you still haven't learned how to hold your liquor.”

“Excuse me, Hermione? I’m a drinking champ, I'm a freaking pro,” said Ron, voice high in feigned offense.

“Last year’s Christmas Party suggests otherwise,” said Ginny, turning to shoot him a teasing smirk, “you almost broke your leg dancing on those levitated tables. But I’m happy to wake up tomorrow with a fun headline to read, so don’t let that memory stop you.”

“Your total lack of trust in my drinking abilities actually wounds me, ” said Ron, pressing a hand to his chest. “It seriously does.”

“Sorry, mate,” said Harry, “there’s no defending you on this.” 

“Don’t worry too much, brother,” said Ginny, “there’s no better place to injury yourself while drunk than in a party full of Healers.” Hermione chuckled as she listened to them bicker, feeling light when they finally reached the ballroom’s entrance. 

Every witch and wizard in the place was dressed to the nines. Couples clustered around small tables scattered across the parquet floor, illuminated by a dazzling chandelier and hundreds of floating candles. The walls were covered in lavish velvet banners which displayed messages about St. Mungo’s legacy and images of important moments in the hospital's history. In the far corner was a small stage, on which a sole musician played the harp. The music was muffled by the sound of loud conversation echoing all over the room. 

As they walked down the large Victorian staircase, they were greeted by people eager to congratulate Harry on his promotion, most of whom Hermione recognized from former Ministry functions. Her neck and face felt impossibly hot; she wished she had worn her hair down to hide the flush in her cheeks. Ron stuck by her side, but unlike Hermione, he seemed to bask in the attention, swaggering his way through clusters of people while holding aloft a glass of champagne he had grabbed from a passing tray. 

“Do you want one?” asked Ron, turning to her and taking a sip.

“Not yet,” she shook her head, “we’ve just gotten here.”

“Live a little, Hermione,” he said, throwing his head back as he drowned the rest of the champagne in one large gulp. Hermione suppressed a grimace.

Hermione turned to see an older woman approaching them. She smirked when Ron started coughing in surprise, patting him lightly on the back before turning to face the stranger. 

“Hello, Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley,” said the woman, offering them her hand, “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced before. I’m Karina Goldfinch, and I’m part of the St. Mungo’s board of directors.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Karina,” said Hermione, shaking her hand. She subtly nudged Ron with her elbow, who grunted the woman a hello, his face still red. 

As Karina began asking about her work at the MRC, Hermione squared her shoulders and amped up her smile, mentally reminding herself what was public knowledge and what she could say that wouldn’t earn her a meeting with Hughman next week.  _ I wish Cartwell was here _ , she thought,  _ she’d know the best talking points about the MRC.  _

Soon Hermione was surrounded by a small group of people listening to her with avid attention, nodding at all the right intervals and inquiring further about her life when she fell silent. She nervously tugged at her dress, trying to filter what was safe to risk having plastered in  _ The Daily Prophet _ the next morning.

“I insisted to my family that we had to contribute to rebuilding the school,” said an Auror that she vaguely recognized from the DMLE. “We’ve also donated quite a few exclusive editions from our personal library. I’ve heard you have quite a passion for books, isn’t that right?”

“Oh yes, I love books,” said Hermione, throwing a subtle glance towards where Ron had previously stood. 

She wasn’t surprised to see he had fled their conversation. About thirty feet away, he had gathered his own crowd, made up of young women who nodded at everything he said while he downed champagne and ate an horrying amount of hors d'oeuvres.  _ It’s like he’s still fifteen years old _ , she thought. 

“Most of the books we donated were from our extensive collection on Herbology. The Headmistress was so grateful,” the Auror prattled on. “I still own some rare texts on many subjects, if you’d be interested-”

“That’s incredible,” said Hermione, struggling to pay attention. She noticed Harry and Ginny across the ballroom, hands intertwined as they chatted with the Minister of Magic and a clean-cut Gawain Robards. “Your generosity definitely made all the difference at getting Hogwarts back in shape as quickly as we did.” 

She was relieved when Ron finally returned to her side, greeting the group politely before whispering in her ear, “Harry is waving at us, we should head over there, yeah?”

Hermione nodded, then turned to the group. “I’m sorry. I have to go now, but I am sure we’ll catch up later!” She gave them an apologetic smile as she excused herself. 

Ron pressed a hand to the small of her back, guiding her through the crowd as they dodged people’s attempts at catching their attention. She stepped away from his lingering hand as soon as they reached Harry.

“Minister,” greeted Hermione, nodding at Shacklebolt. “Robards. Long time no see.”

“Miss Granger, it’s been a while,” said Shacklebolt, grinning at her. “We were just talking about the work you’ve been doing at the MRC. We greatly appreciate your efforts.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she flushed, waving a hand. “I’m glad to be able to help.”

“Don’t be humble, Miss Granger,” said Robards, tilting his head to the side. “We just bumped into Hughman, he raves about you every time we speak.”

“The director is very generous with his compliments,” said Hermione, itching to change the subject.  _ It’s not like I’m having actual success over there _ , she thought grimly. “Harry is the one who’s making waves, we’re all so happy about his new position. I’m sure you’re proud to be his mentor.”

“Like I’ve told everyone who’s asked,” Robards pointed his glass of champagne towards Harry, “there is no one better suited for the job.” 

Hermione watched as Ginny grinned in delight, squeezing Harry’s arm. His face flushed in a mixture of bashfulness and pride. 

“I wonder what you’re planning to do now that you’ve stepped down?” asked Hermione, unable to control her tongue. She smiled tightly when Harry nudged her with his foot. 

“Oh, this and that. You’ll know in due time,” said Robards. Before Hermione could press for more information, he snapped his head towards  _ The Daily Prophet _ ’s photographer, waving his hand to call him over. “We should take a photo to celebrate this moment, right, Kingsley?”

“Of course,” the Minister agreed, “it’s been a while since we’ve had every member of The Golden Trio in the same place.”

“Maybe we should visit the MRC more,” said Robards, arching a brow at Hermione, “or perhaps Miss Granger is finally ready to accept an offer to work in a more pivotal Ministry department?”

Hermione was spared from having to respond by the arrival of the photographer, who seemed both thrilled and nervous to be in their presence.

“Could you all stand side to side?” he prompted eagerly, taking a few steps back as he raised his camera. Robards and Shacklebolt moved to stand on either side of Harry and Ron. Hermione was squeezed between Ginny and Ron, the latter throwing his arm over her shoulder. She fought the urge to close her eyes as the photographer snapped photos in a quick succession, making sure to smile as brightly as she could.

She let her smile drop when Shacklebolt finally waved the photographer off. He nodded before scurrying away with his camera. 

“What is that Death Eater scum doing here?” suddenly hissed Ron.

Hermione turned to look in the direction he was staring, her heart skipping a beat when she saw Malfoy’s tall figure. She watched him walk down the stairs with a slender brunette Hermione recognized as Daphne Greengrass. 

“Is he even allowed to be here?” said Ron.

“He’s probably Daphne’s guest,” said Hermione. She watched Malfoy bend his head down to whisper something in her ear. Daphne glanced up at him with lips twisted in a delicate smile. Hermione felt her cheeks burn. 

“After everything the ferret’s done, he should be rotting in Azkaban, not walking around like he owns the place,” complained Ron, staring at them as hard as Hermione. “I don’t know who sends out invitations for these things, but they need to start sorting a blacklist or something--” continued Ron as Hermione barely listened. She hid her audible intake of breath when Malfoy’s head snapped in their direction. When his eyes locked on hers, she felt a shiver down her spine.

“Oi, is he bloody looking at us?”

“Of course he is,  _ Ronald _ ,” snapped Hermione, forcing herself to look away. “Maybe stop giving him so much attention.” 

“Why am I suddenly ‘Ronald?’” he said in a hurt voice. “What the bloody hell did I do now?”

“Nothing, Ron, I’m sorry,” she said, then turned her body towards him, trying to ignore Malfoy’s lingering gaze. “How about we take a walk around? I think I saw Hestia Jones somewhere, we should greet her.” 

“Oh, yeah, I haven’t seen Hestia since her wedding last year,” nodded Ron. “Let’s go, then. And you’re right, we should just pretend Malfoy’s not here.”

Hermione sighed in relief and followed Ron. When he offered her a glass of champagne, this time she accepted, taking a large sip. She hoped the alcohol would numb her enough to make the rest of the night pass quickly. 

_ 

Draco leaned against a stone pillar, arms crossed, and admired the balcony’s view of the navy blue sky. He’d surreptitiously cast a Silencing Charm on the balcony doors, which provided a much needed refuge from the noise of the ballroom. After barely an hour at this party, he was already itching to be anywhere else. 

Having grown up as a Malfoy, this type of function wasn’t a novelty to him. In fact, it wasn’t even the most extravagant event he had attended. But he wasn’t used to being so openly scrutinized. Draco didn’t mind some attention, but he was getting tired of pretending not to notice the glares thrown in his direction.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” uttered a familiar voice. Draco turned around in time to catch Granger’s retreating form. “I didn’t realize you were out here.”

“You can stay,” said Draco, the words spilling out of his mouth before his mind could catch up.

Granger hesitated. Somehow Draco knew she wasn’t going to leave. He had noticed her several times throughout the evening -- it was a strange feeling, to instinctively know when she was looking at him. When he chased her stare, Granger snapped her eyes away as if shocked she’d gotten caught. 

He purposely didn’t think too hard about what it meant. 

“You needed an escape too?” asked Granger, stepping further onto the balcony. She moved to stand by his side, leaning her elbows over the golden railing. 

“I didn’t need to escape anything, Granger,” he huffed. “Watching you and Potter get your arses kissed was getting hard, though, so I came out for some fresh air.”

“You didn't have to look at us if it was bothering you so much,” she snapped.

“Oh, please,” he rolled his eyes, “this might as well be a Golden Trio party. You’re getting more attention than the actual healers we’re supposed to be celebrating.” To his surprise, her shoulders sagged. 

“It _was_ getting too much,” she admitted grudgingly. “Sometimes people really have no sense.”

Draco watched her from the corner of his eye. Granger did look kind of rattled. Otherwise, she was as put together as he had ever seen her. Her usually wild curls were pinned in a braided updo, giving Draco an open view of her flushed skin and shining lips. He couldn’t even begin to sort out what he thought of her, when she looked like this. 

“Why are you staring at me?” asked Granger, shooting him a suspicious look. “Is there something on my face? I told Ginny I didn’t want to put on so much makeup.” 

“There's nothing on your face, Granger. Calm down,” he said. 

She didn’t say anything immediately, choosing instead to look at the sky. Draco had stepped away from the pillar, and now stood with his side pressed against the railing, his body turned to face her. He noticed how the moon seemed to form a halo behind her head. He kept having to drag his eyes back to her face, instead of lingering on the distracting curve of her neck. 

She cleared her throat before looking at him again. “Harry is a weird case. I think that as much as he craves attention, he’s uncomfortable with it. It’s actually kind of funny watching him in crowds like this. He acts so awkward, but it doesn’t really seem to drain his energy.”

“Why are you telling me this?” he said. “Potter being an attention-seeker is not new information.”

“It’s because you remind me of him, in that way.” She chuckled at his affronted expression. “I just meant that you both naturally catch people’s attention. But instead of acting awkward, you just strut around as if everyone  _ should  _ be looking at you.”

“That’s not a lie. I can safely say that, unlike Potter, I provide people with a breathtaking view.” He gave a casual shrug. Granger sighed in exasperation, and he had to bite back the smile threatening to surface. 

"I don’t know how you fit anywhere with a head as big as yours.”

“So original, Granger,” he snickered. “I could turn that into a dirty joke, but I know you’re a lady.”

“You won’t do it because you know I’ll punch you in the face,” said Granger.

“So Muggle of you to threaten to punch me instead of hexing me.” 

Granger feigned a sweet smile. “Hexing you would be a waste of my magic, Malfoy. And you know for a fact I have a mean hook.”

“You have a what?”

“It's boxing slang, it means my punch  _ will  _ hurt you,” she said. Draco leaned closer to her, smirking when she flushed. She turned her head away from him, but didn’t step back. “Anyway, there’s something I want to tell you.”

“Oh?” He looked at her with both apprehension and anticipation.

“I did some research about the London Eye,” said Granger. She skimmed her fingers along the railing, looking almost shy. 

“The wheel ferry?” asked Draco, confused at her change of subject.

“ _ The ferris wheel, _ ” she corrected. “So, it’s made of steel, right?”

“Am I about to get a lesson?” 

“ _ So _ ,” she went on, ignoring him, “there are two tapered legs at the base of the structure, and it has cables that keep the frame from tilting towards the River Thames.”

“That’s how they keep the thing upright?” he said curiously. 

“Pretty much,” she agreed. “Those cables are buried in a concrete foundation that’s, like, about thirty-three meters deep.”

“And you researched that?” asked Draco.

“I just found these little tidbits. Apparently the London Eye is different from other wheels because it has enclosed capsules instead of the usual gondolas. And it’s only supported on one side, so people are basically hanging over the river while it turns.” 

“That’s interesting,” said Draco.

“ _ I know _ ,” Granger nodded enthusiastically, “you seemed curious about it. Of course I’d have to study it way more to understand the mechanics, but I figured that might answer some of your questions.”

_ Granger’s pretty _ , Draco thought suddenly. When the realization hit him, he straightened up where he stood. He felt the urge to leave the room and never face Granger again. 

It was the look in her eyes that kept him in place -- like it was completely normal to spend time researching something she wasn’t particularly interested in, just because Draco showed a fleeting curiosity in it. He could bet she didn’t even realize how completely disconcerting that was. 

At last he said, “You really are a swot, aren’t you, Granger?” when the silence dragged for too long, aware of how lame and weak it sounded.

Granger just snickered. “That’s my cross to bear. Just like being a total narcissistic snob is yours.”

“Ah, so we’re back at the insults? That didn’t take long.”

“You started it,” she exclaimed. 

“I just stated facts,” he said smugly, “and you can’t even deny it, swottiness is just a part of your personality. You should learn to embrace it.” 

“You didn’t deny you’re narcissistic either.”

“Ah, how did you put it?” He clicked his tongue.“My cross to bear, apparently.” 

This time, when Granger smiled at him, her eyes turned into half-moons, crinkled at the corners. He had never seen her smile so openly.  _ I should leave _ , he urged himself more forcefully. But she didn’t, so he didn’t, either.

“Why are you really here, Malfoy?” asked Granger after several moments. “Shouldn’t you be escorting Daphne Greengrass around the room?"

“Daphne doesn’t need me to escort her anywhere,” he smirked. “She can survive without me for a while. Couldn’t say the same for Weasel. He was glued to you the entire evening. He’s probably self-combusting right now, thinking someone kidnapped you.”

“Don’t start,” said Granger, her smile dropping. “Ron is my friend.”

“So you can talk about my friends but I can’t talk about yours?”

“I wasn’t insulting her. I just asked you a question.”

“Is there any other way to talk about Weasel? I certainly don’t know it,” he said, watching in amusement as she chewed at her lower lip, trying to appear annoyed. “But to answer your question, just like I told you before, I wanted to get a breather. That doesn’t explain why  _ you _ ’re here.”

“Well,” Granger hesitated, “I guess the same, it got kind of stifling in there. And this Auror kept stopping me to brag about how many galleons he donated to Hogwarts. I don’t know what he was trying to accomplish.”  _ He was trying to impress you so he could get into your pants _ , thought Draco.

“What an absolute git,” said Draco, “my father always told me that witches don’t like when you talk about your wealth.” 

“The same father who bought the entire Slytherin quidditch team brand new brooms in our second year?” said Granger, letting out an unlady-like snort. “Who are you kidding?”

“Pay attention, Granger. I said you shouldn’t  _ talk  _ about your wealth.” He nudged her hand that was gripping the railing. “It’s way more effective to  _ show  _ it.”

“That’s rubbish,” she said, rolling her eyes, “but so like you that I can’t even pretend to be surprised.”

Before Draco could come up with a response, they were interrupted by the sound of the balcony door opening. 

“Draco, I’ve been looking for you for ages!” exclaimed Daphne, not noticing he wasn’t alone. Draco stepped away from Granger and cleared his throat. Daphne faltered, struggling to register what she was seeing. 

“Sorry, Daph. I didn’t realize I’ve been away for so long,” said Draco.

“Oh,” muttered Daphne, “I didn’t see you there, Granger. Am I interrupting--”

“Of course not,” said Granger, smiling flatly. The way it contrasted with the genuine smile she had offered him earlier made Draco shift in discomfort. “Malfoy and I just bumped into each other, that’s all.”

“I can come back in a bit--” started Daphne.

“Don’t be daft, Daphne,” snapped Draco, “Like Granger said, we just bumped into each other. I was about to go back to the party, anyway.”

“Oh, you can stay here, I’m going. Ron is probably looking for me, or something,” said Granger, rushing towards the door before Draco could utter a word. “I guess I'll see you both around.” 

She didn’t spare him another glance as she left the balcony. Daphne watched with a frown as Granger closed the door behind her, then turned to look at Draco. She didn’t say anything at first. Draco sighed and stepped away from the railing. 

“Get that look off your face--”

“What look?” she said, smoothing her expression, “I didn’t have any look.”

“Daphne--”

“I mean, why would I have a look?” continued Daphne. “You left me alone, saying you were going out for a fag. For a couple of minutes, that’s what you said. Then two minutes turned into thirty, and I find you canoodling with--”

“Canoodling?” he hissed. “We weren’t even close. And how old are you, again?”

“Oh, you weren’t canoodling?”

“Hardly,” huffed Draco, “we were merely having a conversation, not that I have to explain myself to you, Daphne. I’m just  _ pretending  _ to be your boyfriend.”

“Oh, get over yourself,” she chuckled. “Granger’s more attractive to me than you are. I’m not bloody jealous. I’m just saying that’s rather stupid of you--”

“You’re sounding exactly like Theo right now.”

“Theo would never let you live this down and you know it,” said Daphne. “Salazar knows I’m not in a position to judge, but you were looking awfully cozy--”

“Because there is nothing to judge, Daphne,” snapped Draco, feeling the momentary semblance of peace slip away. 

“ _ But _ ,” she insisted, “think really hard about what you’re doing. A Greengrass being attracted to women would be excused as teenage passing fancy near the absolute scandal of a Malfoy being attracted to a Muggleborn.” 

“You’re reading too much into something you barely saw,” said Draco, fed up with the conversation. “Come on, let’s go back inside.” 

“You don’t have to be such a git, Draco. I’m trying to give you some friendly advice.”

“And I told you there’s no need,” he said through gritted teeth.

He walked over to the balcony door and opened it, letting the noise of the ballroom invade the balcony. “Are you ready to go or do you want to annoy me some more?”

“No need to fret, I’m not telling anyone your little secret.” She patted his chest softly. Draco rubbed his face, forcing down the urge to snap at her. He sighed loudly and smoothed his face into a neutral expression. Without speaking, he held out his arm to Daphne. She grinned and grabbed his elbow. 

They stepped into the ballroom together. The St. Mungo’s chairman was walking up to the stage, and people were moving closer. Daphne and Draco followed the crowd slowly, making sure to stay a couple of steps behind the main cluster of people.

When the chairman started to speak, Draco bent down to whisper in Daphne’s ear. “My life is not up to discussion, are we clear?” he said.

Daphne just raised a hand to pat his chest again, as if placating an errant child. 

They didn’t speak of it again. But as they watched Healers give speech after boring speech, Draco made sure to not let his eyes drift to Granger, not even when he felt her gaze burn on his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all like this chapter! Hermione and Draco's interaction here is super special cause we're finally establishing their relationship. And also, who doesn't enjoy some flirting? 
> 
> Thank you all so much for all the comments and kudos. I'd love to hear your thoughts on this one <3 I'll come back with an update later this week :)


	12. Just One Safe Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter beta-ed by jeparlepasfrancais

"You wonder what he's thinking when he shivers like that. What can you tell me, what could you possibly tell me? Sure, it's good to feel things, and if it hurts, we're doing it to ourselves, or so the saying goes, but there should be a different music here. **There should be just one safe place in the world, I mean this world.** " Road Music, Richard Siken

* * *

Draco was feeling restless. 

He’d been trying to anger Granger into arguing with him for the past forty minutes, but she seemed to be in too good of a mood to indulge him. He watched her twirl a curl around her finger mindlessly while paying unwavering attention to whatever was spouting out of Theo’s mouth. Draco was tempted to throw a stinging hex in his friend’s direction -- it’d only serve him right. 

“I do agree with it,” said Theo, one arm stretched over the back of his chair. “It might surprise you, Granger, but I really believe that the only way we can evolve is through knowledge.”

“I believe that too,” nodded Granger enthusiastically. “Once we truly understand something, how can we fear it? It’s why I’m so happy that Muggle Studies became a required class. Can you imagine how different your lives would’ve been if you had learned about Muggles from an early age?” 

Draco looked back and forth between Granger and Theo, his lips curling into a sneer. “That is ridiculous,” he said.

“Yes, Malfoy?” said Granger mildly. “Do you have something to say?”

“Theo is bullshiting you,” he said. “The knowledge he swears is so important is actually baseless gossip. He keeps an arsenal of rumors about virtually everyone in the Wizarding community--”

“Excuse me?” said Theo. “How is that relevant to this meeting?”

“And no wizard should be _obligated_ to take Muggle Studies,” continued Draco, ignoring Theo’s offended expression. “That’s a blatant attempt at brainwashing the students.”

“How so?” asked Granger, her voice still obnoxiously even. “The class will provide students with the information necessary to form their own opinions.”

“By forcing seven years of Muggle propaganda down their throats?” said Draco, leaning forward in his chair. “You’re not going to convince me that isn’t brainwashing.”

“That’s such a flawed logic, Malfoy,” said Granger, turning in his direction. “Your families have entire bibles of lies regarding the Muggle world, and you grow up listening to made-up stories you swear up and down are the truth without ever having had a respectful and unbiased conversation with a Muggle-born. But somehow taking a class with an actual professor in a renowned school is considered brainwashing?”

“No other school in Europe has Muggle Studies even as elective,” said Pansy before Draco could speak. “Why should Hogwarts be the special snowflake?”

“We should be glad wizarding Britain is pioneering progressive policies,” said Granger, dragging her eyes from him to Pansy. “Or do you measure your standards by what everyone else is doing?”

“Do you consider censorship a progressive policy?” asked Draco. “Politicians like Wizengamot Judge Jones are pushing for laws that would put even more restrictions on books about pureblood culture. That’s censorship in a nutshell.”

“Have you read the law?” asked Granger with a smile. “Judge Jones is just asking for racist discourse to be taken out of academic texts. She doesn’t want to censor all or even most books.” 

“How would you feel if a book about Muggles was prohibited?” said Pansy.

“If it contained offensive language, I wouldn’t be upset,” said Granger. “Some Muggleborns have a problem with pureblood culture. But I personally believe that purebloods should be free to honor their traditions as you wish. It’s only a problem when pureblood ideals are the basis for a genocidal movement.” 

Draco glanced around the room. Since Granger had followed his advice and waited instead of reporting Rookwood, he had been pretty silent during the meetings, scowling at Granger as if he could burn her to a crisp with the force of his stare. His agitation amused Draco as much as it provided him a relief from having to hear the sod’s voice. 

“I know it might seem impossible,” continued Granger, “but if you really tried to set aside everything that you’ve been taught, even for just one conversation, maybe you would gain a different perspective on things.”

Granger sat silently for a moment, licking her lips. Draco knew that the particular look on her face meant that she was coming up with something that would inevitably inconvenience him. He sighed and turned to Theo, who gave him a smirk. 

“I think I have a new assignment for you, then,” said Granger. “This next week, I want you to have a conversation with a Muggleborn.”

"I hate to burst your bubble,” said Pansy, “but how are we supposed to find a random Muggleborn and strike up a conversation? That’s impossible, Granger.”

“You could explain it was an assignment, but I’d advise you not to,” she shrugged. “You could owl someone you went to school with. There were plenty of Muggleborns in our year. Frankly, how you do isn’t really my concern. Just make sure it’s done by our next meeting.”

“She’s such a bloody bitch,” grumbled Pansy, quietly enough so that only Draco could hear. 

“I’m going to ask you for the name of the person you talked to, and don’t try to make something up. I have no qualms about contacting them myself to verify your story,” said Granger, standing up from her chair. “You all can go now. I’ll see you Friday.” 

Rookwood was the first to stand up and leave the Solarium. Pansy and Millicent walked behind him at a slower pace, complaining to each other in what they thought were whispers. 

Draco lingered, slowly rising from his chair while he waited for the rest of the room to leave. He didn’t know why he wanted to talk to Granger, but he wasn’t used to denying himself what he wanted. _It’s harmless_ , he told himself, _and if I make her believe I’m changing my mind, I’m one step closer to getting out of the program_. 

Draco felt eyes on him. He turned to see Theo staring at him, a mischievous look in his eyes. “Do you need something, Theo?” he said irritably.

“The meeting is over, if you haven’t realized,” said Theo, waving a hand around the mostly empty room. “Let’s grab a pint of butterbeer at The Three Broomsticks, I’m stressed.”

“I can’t,” said Draco, feigning an apologetic expression, his mind searching for an believable excuse. “Granger actually asked me to stay behind. I think she wants to get my report on the Rookwood situation.”

“But she hasn’t asked anyone else to do that,” said Theo, looking suspicious, “so why would she ask _you_?”

“Don’t you remember you forcing me to go look for her? She’s probably getting my report first, then asking the rest of you,” lied Draco, meeting Theo’s stare with a blank expression. He kept still as he waited for his friend to call him out, but Theo only smirked, clapping him on the back. 

“Alright, then. Good luck with that, owl me once you’re free.”

When Theo finally left the room, Draco turned towards Granger, who was picking up the chairs, shrinking them, and placing them inside of her bottomless bag. 

Draco took a few steps closer to her, waiting for her to stop and acknowledge his presence in the room, but Granger continued as if he wasn’t there.

“Granger,” he said finally, his voice brimming with aggravation. “I need to talk to you.”

“Do you?” asked Granger, still not turning around. 

“You just gave us an assignment,” said Draco, watching as she grabbed the chair closest to him and mumbled _Reducio_. “And I’m a very applied student.”

“This isn't a class,” huffed Granger. “What do you want, Malfoy?”

“We’re supposed to talk to a Muggleborn, aren’t we? So, I’m talking to you.”

“I obviously don’t count,” she said in an exasperated voice, her hands on her hips. “You might not take this seriously, Malfoy, but I do--”

“You do count,” he interrupted. “Why not? I’m going to have a conversation with you outside of our meetings. Actually, it’s better if we’re completely outside this building, and we won’t talk about anything related to the program.”

“That just feels like cheating,” said Granger. 

“It’s not my fault they weren’t clever enough to think of it,” said Draco, crossing his arms. “But if you don’t want to, I’m not going to insist.”

Granger hesitated, looking from Draco to the door. He almost laughed. Just like the storage closet. Just like Muggle London. Just like the balcony. They always seemed to be in that situation -- one of them convincing the other to spend time together.

“What do you even want to do?” asked Granger suspiciously. 

“We could go to that London Eye you keep talking about,” he said. 

“You want to ride the London Eye?” asked Granger, her mouth slightly agape. “You do know that it was built by Muggles, right? Or did you forget?”

“I know that, Granger, do you think I’m stupid?” he snapped.

“I’m just making sure,” said Granger, her brow furrowed. “I’m just surprised you’d want to go to Muggle London, especially after the tantrum that you threw last time.”

“Every time we talk, you keep going on and on about it. I’m tired of it, Granger. And I’m actually not fully convinced they aren’t using magic to keep that thing turning.”

“Oh, of course,” she chuckled. “Of course you would believe magic was somehow behind it. Okay, then, Malfoy, if you insist--”

“I just said I’m not insisting--”

“If you insist,” she continued, “then we can go. I have to take these chairs back to the room, so you can meet me downstairs, if you want.”

“I’m not gonna wait around for you, Granger, how ridiculous would I look?” 

Granger sighed heavily and shook her head.

“Come with me, then,” she said, leaving the room without waiting for him to agree. 

Draco followed Granger in silence, conscious of the people walking around the busy corridors of the center. He walked a couple of steps behind her, watching her hair bounce up and down her shoulders as she marched down the corridor in quick, purposeful steps. She took them to the old meeting room, quickly unlocking the door, stepping inside, and starting to enlarge the chairs. 

“Why do you do this every meeting? Why not just leave the chairs up there?” asked Draco, standing by the door. 

Granger shifted uncomfortably. She didn’t answer, methodically enlarging and setting the chairs down on the floor. 

“The goody-two-shoes isn’t so goody, then?” said Draco loudly. The corner of his lip curled up when he noticed the flush on Granger’s cheeks. 

“Stop talking so loud,” hissed Granger. “And I don’t know what you’re talking about, Malfoy.” She stepped out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her. Her eyes travelled nervously down the corridor as she locked the room up. 

“I don’t why I’m surprised that you’re going behind Cartwell’s back,” said Draco in a lower voice, “but this seems a little ridiculous. Do you really think she’d care about us changing rooms?”

“Again, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” snapped Granger. “Now shut up, let’s get out of here.”

Draco hid a smile as they turned the corner, stopping in an empty hallway. He wasn’t surprised when Granger lifted her wand to transfigure her own robes into a pair of dark jeans and an oversized jumper. She raised her eyebrows, waiting for his nod.

“You’re not fooling me, Granger,” he said, standing still as she transfigured his robes into jeans, a long-sleeved black shirt and a jacket. “You’re more sneaky than I give you credit for.”

“I’m going to talk to Cartwell eventually,” she finally gave in. “Soon, actually. But until then, shut up about it, okay?”

“Alright,” he said, a playful gleam in his eyes. “Shall we go?”

Granger looked at him as if there were a million questions going through her mind. Draco silently urged her to keep silent, to not ruin the weightless feeling around them. There was a tenuous thread strung between them; it’d easily break if stretched too far, too soon.

Maybe Granger felt it, too, because she didn’t say anything, only nodded. Then she grabbed his arm and apparated them out of the building.

_

There was an impossibly long line inside the Ticket Office. Draco tapped his foot against the floor, huffing impatiently as he watched Granger slowly read through a folder, like she wasn’t even the slightest bothered that they’d been waiting for the past fifteen minutes.

“Granger,” he muttered, nudging her with his elbow.

“What?” she grunted, keeping her eyes on the folder.

“How much time do you think I have to waste? Do something!”

“What are you, five?” she snapped. “What do you want me to do? Everyone has to wait their turn. This is an extremely popular tourist attraction.” 

“Are you a witch or not?” he said quietly, bending his head closer to her ear, close enough to feel the shiver that ran through her body when his lips brushed against her hair. “There’s no reason we need to wait.”

“Don’t be rude,” said Granger, turning to face him. They were close enough that their shoulders brushed when she moved. “I’m not using magic to cut in a line just because you’re too much of a spoiled brat to wait for your turn.”

“Haven’t we already decided you’re not as high and mighty as you pretend to be? You’re fine with lying to your superiors, but using magic to save ourselves a bit of time is beneath you?”

“You’re not going to change my mind,” she said. Draco inhaled sharply when she raised her hand to pat him lightly on the cheek, giving him a sarcastic smile. She lowered her arm, as if it wasn’t strange that she had touched him. Draco quickly turned to face the line. He could feel Granger shift beside him, but he kept his eyes looking forward, nervous energy inside him fluttering uncomfortably. His neck felt impossibly hot. 

They didn’t talk until their turn finally came up. Granger walked up to the cashier to buy their tickets, the payment process far too quick for the time they’d spent waiting. Wordlessly, the two of them started walking in the direction of the ride. After a moment, Draco said to her, “I could have paid for it.”

“Oh, do you just randomly carry around Muggle money now?” she asked. “Not to mention, this coming from a man who wouldn’t even buy me coffee--”

“Whatever, Granger,” said Draco. “I didn’t know you wanted to be pampered so badly--”

“What if I did?” she challenged. Draco’s eyes travelled up and down her face, noticing the faint freckles scattered around her nose. They were more pronounced in the sunlight. 

“Well, I would’ve said the same thing,” he said. “You have a job, pay for yourself.”

“So frugal,” muttered Granger, rolling her eyes. 

“But I’m the one who wanted to go on the London Eye,” he continued, “so I should’ve paid.”

“And I’m saying I don’t know where you would’ve gotten the money from. Maybe you should get a part-time job at a Muggle restaurant,” she said, her eyes twinkling. 

“When hell freezes over,” scoffed Draco. “It’s ridiculously hot today, by the way.” 

“It’s actually quite chilly,” said Granger, frowning at him. “Are you uncomfortable?”

“No,” said Draco. He didn’t know why he felt so heated, like there was a slow fire burning just beneath his skin. “Can we go already?”

“We have to wait for our turn.”

They stood behind a family in the queue. A heavily pregnant woman was holding the hand of a tall man next to her, who cradled a toddler in his arms. The child’s head lolled on his father’s shoulder. He looked from Draco to Hermione with wide, curious eyes. 

“Why is he staring at us?” asked Draco.

“I don’t know, Malfoy, he’s just a baby,” said Granger, smiling at the child, who gave her a toothy grin. Draco watched her twist her face into a series of ridiculous expressions, poking her tongue out to make him giggle. 

“You’re tormenting the child, Granger,” he mumbled, covering his mouth with his hand to hide his smile. 

Just then, the toddler reached his tiny chubby arms to grab one of Granger’s curls. He yanked, and she let out a yelp, making the father turn around.

“Oh, damn, I’m so sorry,” said the man, lifting his hand to untangle his child’s fingers from Granger’s hair. Draco heard an American accent in his voice. “I swear we’ve taught him not to grab people. He’s usually very shy.” 

“Don’t worry about it, it didn’t hurt,” Granger rushed to say. “Your son is adorable.”

“Thank you,” said the man. “I’m Julian, and this is my wife, Courtney.” 

“Hello there,” said Courtney. “I apologize for my spawn,” she said solemnly, reaching out a hand that Granger shook without hesitation. 

Draco grunted when Granger’s elbow sharpy nudged his side. He ignored it, but when she did it again, he raised his hand to shake the Muggle’s hand. Granger’s eyes were pinned on him, as if she expected him to suddenly combust. 

“I would shake your hand, but my arms are a little full with this one,” said Julian.

“That’s okay,” said Granger. “I’m Hermione, and this is Draco. He’s a bit shy.” 

Draco shot her a look, then turned in the family’s direction with a flat smile. He thought about what his father would say if he saw him now, standing next to Harry Potter’s best friend and fumbling his way through a casual conversation with Muggles. The thought made his stomach lurch.

As if sensing it, Granger lightly placed her hand on his bicep. She softly brushed her fingers up his arm, leaving a burning trail on his skin. As he watched her make small talk with the couple in front of them, Draco saw Granger’s cheek flush pink. He swallowed.

“Are you guys from London?” asked Courtney. 

“I grew up around here,” said Granger. “But Draco here is from Wiltshire, it’s about two hours southwest.”

“Oh, did you like living around there?” Julian asked Draco.

When he didn’t respond immediately, Granger stepped in. “It’s pretty posh out there. He was raised very sheltered.”

“I am _not_ sheltered,” snapped Draco. Granger just laughed. 

“Don’t mind him, he gets a bit overwhelmed around new people. Oh look, it’s your turn to get in.” Granger ignored Draco’s glare and grabbed his arm, dragging him forward. 

“It was nice meeting you both. I hope you enjoy London!” called Granger to the couple, who gave them slightly uncertain smiles. 

Fortunately, Draco and Granger were pointed towards a different cabin. A large group of people followed them as they all stepped inside. Granger let go of his arm when the automatic door closed behind them. 

Draco ignored her amused look and walked towards the huge glass windows. He felt his body jerk uncomfortably when the cabin started moving. Granger stepped to stand by his side.

“Look, you can see Buckingham Palace from here,” she said. “Oh, this is really pretty.”

“You’d get a better view on a broom,” said Draco. “And you wouldn’t be locked inside a metal capsule with a bunch of strangers.”

“I never learned to ride a broom,” said Granger, voice forcibly nonchalant. 

“What?” His head snapped towards her. “We had that class in our first year, Granger.”

“I never got the hang of it,” said Granger, not looking at him. “Brooms don’t respond well to me. And I don’t like the feeling of just sitting on a twig, okay? It’s uncomfortable.”

“I can’t believe you’re comparing a broom to a twig, you’re mad,” chuckled Draco. “But it’s humbling to know Miss Know-It-All can’t ride a broom.”

“Whatever, that’s not the most valuable skill to have. There are much safer and more effective means of transportation in both the wizarding and the Muggle world,” she said defensively, keeping her voice low so they wouldn’t be overheard. 

“There’s no better feeling than riding a broom, Granger. You have complete control of where you’re going. The wind on your face, the rush from the speed, it’s the best. I can’t believe you don’t like it.”

“Well,” said Granger, “if that’s what you like about a broom, I think you’d enjoy riding a Muggle motorcycle.” 

“What?”

“It’s hard to explain. I could show you sometime, but I’m afraid that much Muggle would break you. You should’ve seen your face in line,” she chuckled.

Draco didn’t say anything to that, turning to look out of the window as they climbed even higher above the River Thames. All around them, people audibly gasped in wonder. He didn’t feel as dazzled, but there was something about Granger’s presence that kept him from feeling too uncomfortable. He liked the way the water reflected when he looked down, and how they weren’t so high the clouds obstructed his view of the city. 

When he looked at her out of the corner of his eyes, Draco caught a glance of Granger’s profile. It reminded him of how she stood beside him on the ballroom’s balcony. The lines in her face had smoothed; she looked peaceful. He hadn’t realized that she always seemed to be carrying around extra weight, until she seemed to have shed most of it. 

“You made me look like an imbecile around those Muggles,” he muttered, after a while. 

“You did that all yourself, you kept gaping,” said Granger, a giggle escaping her mouth. “But if you were so eager to talk to them, I would’ve let you.” 

“Shut up, Granger,” said Draco, good-naturedly. “I’m just saying I don’t need you to speak for me.”

“Okay, I’ll make a note of that for next time.” Draco didn’t comment on the sure tone of her voice, as if there wasn’t any doubt there would be a next time.

“How long is this ride supposed to last, anyway?” 

“It’s about thirty minutes total, so we have twenty more minutes to go,” said Granger, leaning against the side of the cabin. “Are you already bored, Malfoy?”

“Are we supposed to just stand here and watch?”

“Pretty much, and appreciate the view,” said Granger with a smile. “But if you’re bored, I could tell you some curiosities about the sights.”

Draco crossed his arms. “Well, you might as well.” 

Granger pointed enthusiastically towards Buckingham Palace, her words stumbling over each other as she fired off random information about Muggle royalty. Draco settled, letting his body relax against one of the metal railings attached to the window. 

Every so often, she glanced away from the view to make sure he was paying attention. As if Draco could do anything but exactly that.

_

By the time Hermione apparated home, the moon had risen high in the sky and the chilly weather had transformed into the type of cold that set deep in the bones. She waved her wand around the living room, mumbling a warming spell before placing her purse on top of the coffee table, bending down to take off her shoes. 

“You’re home late,” said Harry, emerging from the kitchen with a mug in his right hand. He blew on the mug before taking a sip. 

“Oh, hi,” said Hermione, taking off her socks as well. “A late night. I had some work to catch up to at the MRC.” The lie slipped effortlessly off her tongue. 

“Do you want some coffee?” he asked, walking past her to sit on the sofa. “There’s a fresh pot in the kitchen.” 

“No, thank you, I actually want to sleep tonight,” said Hermione. She thought of heading straight to her room, but the look on Harry’s face made her falter. Instead, Hermione sat beside him on the sofa. “What’s up with you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Harry Potter,” said Hermione, grabbing a throw pillow so she could rest her arm. “I know when something’s up. What’s going on?”

Harry took another sip of his coffee. Hermione waited, trying to puzzle out his troubled expression.

“If I tell you about it, do you promise not to start with your conspiracy theories?”

“I promise,” said Hermione, biting back the thought of _raising valid questions doesn't make me a conspiracy theorist._

Harry gave her a doubtful look, but seemed mollified enough. He turned his body fully towards her, raising a knee onto the couch and resting his weight against the cushion. 

“I had a meeting with Robards and Kinglsey today--” started Harry.

“I thought Robards had already left the department?” asked Hermione. Harry shot her a pointed look. “Sorry, I was just curious.”

“He’s not working in the DMLE anymore, but he’s been at the Ministry almost every day, talking to a bunch of different people,” said Harry. “Anyway, Kinglsey called me up, and I went thinking I had managed to screw up my first week on the job.”

“Of course you haven’t!”

“Apparently I didn’t,” nodded Harry, “but they wanted to talk to me about some… concerns, I guess.” Hermione suppressed the urge to yell at him to spit it out. She refrained from saying anything, watching him struggle to find his words. “Robards said that while he trusts my ability to do the job, some people are worried that I’m too young to hold such a high position.”

“Shouldn’t they have asked those questions before they offered you the job?”

“I think they did,” said Harry, “but Robards went ahead anyway, and I think Kingsley supports him, even though he didn’t speak much in the meeting. Anyway, Robards said it was important that I made an effort to acknowledge these concerns. It’s important for me to have the support of the Wizengamont, as well as the other department heads. They’ve all been working in the Ministry way longer than I have.”

“That doesn’t seem unreasonable,” said Hermione, moving her legs so she could rest her feet up on the couch. “What’s bothering you so much?”

“He said something about making myself more reliable. I thought the best way to do that would be by showing people that I’m serious about the job, but he said all areas of my life affect how people see me.”

“Harry,” said Hermione slowly, “after everything you’ve sacrificed over the years, I don’t think you have to prove to anyone how serious you are about your role in the wizarding community.”

“I can’t be exempt from everything, Hermione.”

“But you’ve shown many times you’re capable of anything you set your mind to.” she said. “I mean, who else can say they brought down Voldemort?”

“You’re my friend, and I’m happy you think so highly of me. But I don’t mind having to prove myself.” Harry put his mug down on the coffee table.

“I’m sure with time you’ll be able to set any doubt to rest.”

“Maybe,” said Harry. “But until then I might get many of my initiatives blocked, or everything that I do questioned. Robards said I need to show how stable my life is.”

“What does that mean?” asked Hermione, her brow furrowed. 

“He said it’d be a good idea for me to think of moving up my engagement to Ginny,” said Harry. “You know I’ve wanted to propose to her for a while, but my initial plan was to wait until we were both more settled in our careers. But apparently married men have more credibility than bachelors do.”

“Harry, I don’t really think a job should factor into a serious decision like that. It baffles my mind that Robards would even suggest it,” said Hermione, feeling unsettled. “He wants you to get married for what? To appear more grown up and serious to those old sods? What you do with your personal life doesn’t influence your ability to do your job properly.”

“But it’s not like I wasn’t going to propose to her, I might have to move our timeline up a little, but--”

“Harry, are you serious?” said Hermione. “I know you don’t like my so-called conspiracy theories, but Robards seems kind of--”

“Hermione,” he interrupted, “I need to be taken seriously by people inside the Ministry, people who have been there much longer than I have. I can’t be seen as unreliable, or unstable. Robards just cares about my career, he wants to help me.”

“If Robards is still so involved with the DMLE, it doesn’t sound like he ever really left,” said Hermione. “If he stepped down, I don’t understand why he would still have so much influence in the department.”

“He’s been an Auror for most of his life,” said Harry. “It’s not weird that he keeps in touch with the Ministry about how the department is doing. He just gave me something to think about, it’s all.”

Hermione sighed. Sometimes she felt like talking to Harry was like talking to a brick wall. 

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

Hermione digested Harry’s words, struggling to make sense of what was going on. After a moment, she said, “Can I ask you a question, Harry? You don’t have to answer it, and I won’t push if you don’t, I promise.” 

“Of course you can, Hermione."

Hermione setted her legs back on the floor, then said, “It seems to me like Robards is grooming you. I don’t know for what, but why else would he be so involved with what’s going on at the Ministry? I’m not the only one who thinks he’s aiming for a political career.”

“Are you talking about that bloody magazine again?”

“Yes, I am. It gets a lot right,” said Hermione. “Even if I’m completely wrong, tell me this. Do you have any interest in working with politics?”

Harry seemed taken aback by her question. He pushed up the glasses sliding down his nose, then said, “I want to be an Auror, Hermione. You know this. When have I said anything else?”

Hermione studied his face, unsure if she truly believed him. _Since when are you so suspicious of him?_ she asked herself. 

“Then I don’t think you should let other people dictate your life, Harry. If you want to be a good Head of Department, then do that. Soon enough people will stop doubting you.”

_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone! this one took me a while to get to you because I spent the past week in the process of moving (I was studying abroad before the pandemic hit), now I'm settled and ready to rock n' roll. I hope you liked this chapter. The next one is SUPER special :) thank you so much for all the lovely comments and kudos. It makes all the difference to this story! Can't wait to hear your thoughts on this one.
> 
> I'm also on tumblr with the user https://masterofinfinities.tumblr.com/. Sometimes I post some edits for this story. Feel free to hit me up over there if you feel like it :)


	13. Back Into the Street Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> props for the amazing editing work of my beta @jeparlepasfrancais, this story wouldn't be here if it wasn't for her

"I want to tell you this story without having to say that I ran out into the street to prove something, that **he chased after me** and threw me into the gravel. And **he knew it wasn't going to be okay, and he told me it wasn't going to be okay** (...) he covered my body with his body and held me down until I promised not to run back out into the street again." The Torn-Up Road, Richard Siken

* * *

_Night, gods, unbowed, unafraid, captain -_

Hermione was finishing tying the laces of her oxford shoes when she heard incessant tapping on her window. She stood up and walked towards the regal-looking silver owl sitting on her window sill. The bird flew away as soon as she grabbed the package from its beak, not waiting for the treat she was about to grab. 

She turned the package in her hands, stopping for a second to admire the beautiful white paper it was wrapped in. It was tied with a large chartreuse bow, the ribbon feeling like smooth silk when she rubbed it between her fingers. 

Hermione sat on the edge of her bed and carefully unwrapped the package. She revealed a copy of _“Flying High: The Global History of Broom Racing_ . _”_ On its cover, a drawing of a young-looking wizard flying a broom raced across the night sky, stars sparkling against the navy blue background. 

Hermione took out the piece of parchment that slipped between the first couple of pages.

_Granger,_

_It was about time someone taught you to appreciate the art of flying. I figured you wouldn’t appreciate the usual how-to manual, but a book on broom history might strike your fancy._

_DM_

_p.s. I hope you admired the beautiful condition of my owl. Did you notice how he didn’t appear to be at risk of toppling over? Aren’t you glad that I sent a hardier specimen than the abused thing you sent me?_

To her astonishment, Hermione’s chest bubbled up laughter. She pressed a fist to her mouth, but it wasn’t enough to contain the hysterical giggles that burst out of her. Her chest shook with the force of it. She bent in two, taking deep breaths, trying to contain her laughter. She wasn’t surprised when her eyes watered up instead. _Bloody wednesday_ , she thought tiredly, blinking away the tears, and then, _bloody Malfoy._

Hermione looked up from the book when she heard a soft knock on the door. She placed the gift on her nightstand, then stood up, rushing to the bathroom to check herself on the mirror before answering the door. Her face was flushed -- she turned the tap on, wetting her palms and dabbing her cheeks, hoping the cool water would help her look less rattled. 

When she opened the door, Harry was waiting for her, a somber expression on his face. They didn’t say anything to each other, but she grabbed his hand when he held it out, squeezing his fingers as they walked towards the living room. 

“I’m going to go first,” Harry’s voice was almost a whisper, as if talking too loud would disrupt an unspoken agreement between them. “Do you want me to wait for you?”

Hermione shook her head. 

“No, you should probably check up on Ginny right away,” she said, letting go of his hand.

Harry held her stare for a few seconds. Hermione lifted her chin, trying to appear somber yet strong. _Today is not about me_ , she reminded herself, _and it isn’t about Harry, either_. 

“I’m going to wait for you,” said Harry in a final tone of voice. Hermione braced herself for an argument, but Harry apparated before she could open her mouth. 

There was a lump forming in her throat, and she felt a growing desire to run back to her room. But Harry was waiting for her, and he would notice if she took too long. The last thing Hermione wanted was for him to feel like he needed to look after her, too. 

Hermione squared her shoulders and apparated, feeling off-balanced when she landed in the Burrow’s front yard. Before she could fall, Harry shot out a hand to steady her. She smiled at him gratefully. The two of them walked towards the front door in silence. Harry pushed open the door and led them down the hall, following the noise into the kitchen. 

Most of the Weasleys were there, Molly was mixing something in a bowl, splashes of flour covering her purple blouse. Fleur was beside her, waving her wand over a cutting board. Ron had his elbows on the table, frowning in concentration as he played a match of chess against Bill. Arthur stood over them, his hip digging onto a chair as he rested his weight against it. 

They made a normal picture, at first, but on a second glance it didn’t take much to notice that the group looked ragged, shoulders sagged and faces exhausted from lack of sleep. 

“Oh, hello, my dears,” said Molly, looking up from the bowl to offer them a weak smile. “We were just waiting for you. Harry, will you call Ginevra down, please?”

“Yes, of course,” said Harry. He pressed a quick kiss on Molly’s cheek and clapped a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, who didn’t react outwardly, before disappearing up the stairs.

Hermione watched the exchange with a tight chest. After offering quick hellos to everyone in the room, she sat down in the chair to Ron’s left. In greeting, he bumped his shoulder against hers, his attention still on the game. 

Hermione learned forward in her chair so she wouldn’t be overheard, then whispered, “Percy and Charlie haven’t arrived yet?” 

“Charlie owled this morning, there was an emergency with trafficked dragon eggs, and Percy…” said Arthur, shaking his head, “Audrey just had the baby, and he thought it was best they spent the day as a family.” 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Weasley,” said Hermione, chewing on her bottom lip. Arthur looked pale and underfed, his clothes in disarray. He looked exactly how Hermione had come to expect in the past year, but it was always startling, as if a light had gone off in him. 

“It is what it is,” said Arthur, offering her a grimace. He turned to his wife. “I have a bit of a headache, Molly, dear, would you mind if I lie down for a bit before dinner?”

Molly looked up from what she was doing, lips tightly pursed. “Of course not, dear, but it won’t be long. I’ll send one of the boys to call you once we’re ready. There’s a fresh pain-relief potion on your nightstand.”

Once Arthur left the room, Hermione turned to Ron and Bill. “ I shouldn’t have asked,” she said, feeling guilty. 

“It wasn’t you,” said Bill, moving a piece on the board. “He’s been like that since yesterday, he came down to say hello when Fleur and I got here and then went back to sleep. If mum let him, he wouldn’t have left his room.”

“Ginny is like that too,” said Ron. “I thought she was over at Harry’s, but she’s been locked in her room for the past two days. I only noticed it when I bumped into her in the corridor late last night.” 

“I tried to talk to her,” added Bill, voice low. “Fleur too, but she slammed the door in my face.”

“It only makes her angrier, I thought she’d bite my head off for asking if she was okay,” said Ron, scowling when Bill ended the game with a checkmate. “Bloody hell,” he grumbled.

“Ronald!” snapped Molly.

“Sorry, mum,” murmured Ron, chastised. He pushed the board away and lowered his head to rest on his arms. Bill didn’t say anything, just stored the pieces and board back in their box, then stood up to help Fleur with the food.

Hermione felt like an intruder in a family moment -- they were all walking on eggshells, hesitant and exhausted. If she moved too abruptly, she’d disturb the claustrophobic peace they reached. Not being there would be much worse, but watching it all while with her hands tied was excruciating. 

“I’m going to help your mother,” she said to Ron, standing up. She needed to do something, _anything_ to feel more of use and less of a nuisance.

Molly tried to decline her offer, but when Hermione insisted, she directed her to a huge bowl of potatoes and told her to peel. Hermione approached the task like it was her calling in life.

When she was done, she set the bowl close to Molly and Fleur and started doing the dishes by hand, ignoring Ron’s grumbles that she could do it quicker with magic. By the time they had finished cooking the meal, Hermione had cleaned the cabinets and reorganized Molly’s spices by color. 

“Ron, go get your father, will you?” said Molly, sounding reasonably tired. 

For the first time, Hermione managed to steal a proper look at her without being noticed. Molly’s hands were shaking, and she kept fiddling with the objects closest to her, like talismans. Her eyes were swollen, and her forehead shimmered with sweat.

Hermione had never felt as useless as she did in that moment -- watching one of the strongest women she knew looking like the floor was about to open under her feet. 

There was a growing feeling of despair taking shape inside of Hermione, like a monster crawling from her chest up to her throat. She rubbed a hand on her face to urge her tears back. 

At last, it was time to eat. Hermione sat on the chair she had previously occupied, waiting as everyone took their respective seats. Arthur was at the head of the table, his expression bleaker than earlier. After she finished levitating all the plates and bowls to the table, Molly sat by his side, leaning over to whisper something in his ear. Ron’s knee brushed against Hermione when he leaned forward to grab a piece of bread; he munched on it as they waited for Harry and Ginny.

Harry appeared first, giving Hermione a meaningful look as he dragged an reluctant Ginny behind him -- she was bare faced, hair on a high ponytail, wearing an oversized sweater with holes on the sleeves. She didn’t greet anyone, but pressed a kiss to her mother’s cheek before sitting in the chair across from Hermione.

“You can all dig in, what are you waiting for?” urged Molly, grabbing the gravy and passing it to Fleur, who mumbled thank you. 

“How is your work at the DMLE, Harry?” asked Bill.

Harry smiled at him. “Oh, it’s fine. It’s definitely stressful, but I enjoy it.”

“He has a huge office now,” Ron piped up, his mouth open as he chewed. “It’s a good hiding spot from that crazy bird on the third floor. She’s always dropping love notes on my desk, I swear.”

“How come you never complained to Robards about her before?” said Harry in a teasing voice. “I think you like to be fawned over.”

“Shut up, Harry,” hissed Ron, glancing at Hermione from the corner of his eye, who looked down at her plate as if she hadn’t noticed. “You’re the one with all the fans.”

“But you’re the one who likes to be flattered, mate,” said Harry.

Ron rolled his eyes. “You’re not lacking attention yourself.”

“Can we eat in peace?” snapped Ginny. Her voice sounded rough and scratchy. “No one cares about your fans, Ron.” 

“You don’t need to come at me,” spat Ron, dropping his fork onto the ceramic plate with a loud clink. “It’s not my fault this day is so shite, Ginny. What are you getting by snapping at everyone?” 

“I just want to eat in bloody silence for once, is that so hard to ask?”

“Children--” started Molly. 

“Of course you do, you’ve been wallowing in silence in your bloody room for the past two days and it’s not bloody helping--”

“You refusing to shut the hell up isn’t helping either, Ron, no one bloody cares about--”

“You will both stop right now--” tried Molly.

“No, I’m sick of him making snide comments about my life. Why is me being in my bedroom bothering him so much? I’m barely at home as it is.” 

“We all know what happened with the last person we let waste his life away inside of a room-”

“Ron,” hissed Bill, giving him a sharp look. “That’s enough.”

“No, it’s bloody not,” said Ron. He sighed, then looked at his mother. “Why aren’t we talking about this? Are we going to pretend we’re not here today for a reason?”

Hermione's hands started shaking, so she put them on her lap, wringing them together. It was like witnessing a car crash in progress. Ron’s face was flushed red and a vein throbbed in his neck. Hermione had seen him like this before, and she knew what was coming next. 

“Are we not going to talk about the fact that George’s dead?” he continued, voice just above a whisper. “This is bloody daft, this entire thing is bloody daft. What’s the point of having dinner on the anniversary of his bloody death if we’re not going to talk about it?”

“Mate--” tried Harry.

“No, shut up, I’m talking,” said Ron. “I know everyone is upset, fuck, George is dead because he was bloody upset all the time, but I don’t want to remember him like that. He was the opposite of that, before Fred. Do any of you remember? Because I bloody do.”

“Ron, I think it’s best if you stop, right now,” said Ginny, her voice sharp but her eyes wet with tears. She clenched her fork tight in her fist. “Please, stop.”

“Fine,” said Ron. He stood up abruptly, pushing his chair back until it hit the wall behind him. 

The sound of his feet stomping up the stairs echoed loudly off the walls. Hermione waited to see if anyone would follow him, but no one did. Molly was opening and closing her mouth as if she was trying to force herself to say something. When a wail escaped, she quickly clamped a hand against her lips, stood up, and left the room in the opposite direction of Ron. 

Without a word, Arthur followed her, walking slowly, as if the weight on his shoulders were dragging him down.

Hermione looked at the remaining people in the room. Fleur had her chin on Bill’s shoulder, hugging him tight against her. Ginny was rubbing her eyes while Harry stroked her forehead. 

Hermione shut her eyes closed for a second, leaning back in her chair as she tried to quiet the noise inside her head. _Night, gods, unbowed, unafraid, captain_ , she thought, _this is not about you_ , she reminded herself. _Shut up, don’t cry, this is not about you_. 

But it didn’t help. There were tears threatening to surface, and she felt sorrow take over her body like waves crashing on a shore. Her stomach felt queasy. She wanted to disappear from that room immediately, but she was pinned to her seat, afraid to make a scene.

“So, dinner is over, then,” said Fleur, her accented English cutting through the oppressive silence in the room. “Maybe we should go.”

“Yes, we should,” said Bill. He looked up. “Harry, can you tell my mother later, please?”

“Of course,” Harry nodded, his hands still on Ginny’s forehead.

Fleur and Bill stood up from the table, smiling faintly at Hermione as they made their way to the fireplace. When she heard the sound of the floo being activated, Hermione rose from her chair and started picking up the plates.

Ignoring her thudding heartbeat, she waved her wand to start cleaning the dishes, then set on the task of taking the food off of the pans and bowls and putting them on plastic tupperwares. Once she had stored all the food properly inside of the fridge, she turned towards the sink and washed the remaining dishes by hand. 

The cutlery kept slipping from her fingers, her shaking hands making the task even harder. It took all of her attention to focus on it, especially when she heard the sound of the chairs scratching against the floor and Ginny and Harry’s retreating footsteps.

When she was sure she was alone, Hermione turned off the tap and started drying everything. She put the dishes away in the cabinets, barely paying attention to what she was doing -- she knew that Molly would find everything in the wrong place the next morning, but she couldn’t make herself stop working.

Hermione bit her bottom lip, struggling to control the anger steadily building inside of her. _I can’t believe Harry left me alone_ , she thought. But as soon as the thought crossed her mind, she felt guilt overtake her -- _what was he supposed to do? Leave his grieving girlfriend, George’s actual sister, to console someone who doesn’t even belong here?_ Shame mixed with her feelings of sorrow and impotence until Hermione couldn’t remember what she was angry about to begin with.

She grabbed the edges of the sink, her head bent over the rim as she forced herself to inhale and exhale, urging her heart to a normal pace. She murmured her poem over and over until the words blurred together, and pressed her eyelids until all she saw was red. 

When she felt a fraction of composure, she smoothed down the wrinkles on her skirt and turned on her heel, walking to the staircase. As she walked up the stairs, Hermione kept her fists balled, purposely quieting her own mind until all she heard was white noise. A bout of nausea hit her stomach when she approached Ron’s bedroom, but she ignored it.

She knocked on the door twice, then lowered her arm and waited. It wasn’t long before she heard his footsteps approaching, and soon Ron opened the door a crack, only half of his face visible. 

“Hermione,” he said, sounding unsurprised. “This isn’t a good time.”

“I came to ask if you wanted to talk--” she started, but paused when he huffed in annoyance. “What?”

“Now you want to talk?” 

“What is that supposed to mean, Ron? Of course I do. I’m here for you--”

“But you’re really not,” said Ron sharply. “You’re not here, Hermione. You never are, and honestly, now is really not the time for you to try to make amends.” 

“Amends?” she whispered. “Ron, this is about your brother, not about you and me.”

“Fine,” he said, then opened the rest of the door. “How embarrassing is this, Hermione, really? You bloody ignore me the rest of the time, and now you want to talk? I don’t want your attention just because you finally feel sorry for me. ”

“Ronald, I don’t feel sorry for you,” said Hermione, digging her nails into her palms. “I love you. You’re my friend and you’re hurting--”

“I don’t want to be your bloody friend, how many ways can I show it?” he said, then closed his eyes, as if the words had slipped out without his permission. When he opened his eyes again, he looked resigned. “I didn’t mean that. I just-- you’re just making things harder, please, just fucking leave.”

Hermione didn’t stop him when he closed the door. 

For a moment, she stood there outside his room. _Is that it?_ she thought. _Should I try again?_ She would’ve, but she was about to break, and she refused to do it in front of him. 

If she looked back, Hermione didn’t think she’d be able to point out when she decided to do it. It didn’t take much conscious effort to return downstairs. Her movements were deliberate as she scanned a shelf in the Burrow’s living room for a piece of parchment and a quill. When she found it, she scrabbled a quick note and attached it to Errol’s beak. 

When the owl flew away, Hermione left through the Burrow’s front door and apparated to her flat.

_

Hermione had just enough time to boil water for tea and begin to regret her decision before a familiar regal owl tapped on the kitchen window. She turned off the stove before grabbing the envelope from the owl’s beak and opening the seal. 

_Granger,_

_I will refrain from commenting on the dreadful excuse of an owl that dropped your note. You didn’t mention a place you’d like to meet, so I will leave my place’s Floo open for you. Make sure to say “Draco’s Residence”_ _clearly_ _unless you’d prefer to chat with my mother at the Manor._

_I’ll be waiting._

_DM_

Hermione hesitated. 

When she had owled Malfoy asking to meet up, she hadn’t been thinking clearly. She’d been upset with Ron and wanted a distraction from the chaos in her head and heaviness on her chest. Somehow, she’d decided she needed to be around Malfoy. Now, just a few moments later, she wasn’t so sure.

 _You can stay here and wait for Harry to show up_ , she thought. But she was terrified of being alone when she was feeling so raw. _He could've ignored you_ , she rationalized, _but he didn’t._

_He said he would leave his Floo open._

_He said he was waiting for you_.

She swallowed down her apprehension and walked to the fireplace, making sure to enunciate his first name as she threw down the Floo powder. 

_

When Hermione stepped into a strange living room, she furrowed her brow in confusion.

The loft was one large open space, with exposed brick walls and dark wooden floors that shone under her feet. There were no curtains covering the floor-to-ceiling industrial windows, allowing moonlight to filter into the room, scarcely illuminating it. Looking up, Hermione saw wooden beams making up the high ceiling and dark steel railings outlining the loft’s second level. By far, the most remarkable thing about Malfoy's loft was the fact that it was utterly bare -- there wasn’t any furniture in the entire space. 

“Granger.”

Hermione turned when she heard his voice. Malfoy was standing with his back against the marble countertops of the kitchen area, his arms crossed and eyebrow arched. Hermione fidged where she stood, feeling unsure. 

“Where are we exactly?” 

“You can see that it’s my house. I bought it last year, but I obviously don’t live here,” said Malfoy, stepping away from the kitchen to walk in her direction. “What is this about, Granger? You said you wanted to meet up. _Immediately_ , I might add. I would’ve suggested a pub, but--” 

“Merlin, no,” sighed Hermione. “The last thing I need is to end up on _The Daily Prophet’s_ front page on George’s death day. And with _you_ to make matters worse.” 

“What on earth did you want with me today, of all days, then?”

Hermione turned and walked up to one of the large windows. There was no reasonable explanation she could give him. And any answer she came up with would only make things more confusing. 

“This is a really gorgeous place, Malfoy. Why buy it and leave it empty?” asked Hermione. He studied her with an indecipherable expression. She waited for him to call her out -- to point out the strangeness of her request, the peculiar way she was acting.

But he didn’t. Hermione didn’t know what he saw in her face, but she saw his eyes glimmer in realization, stirring something deep inside of her in response. Instead of saying anything, he walked over to her, standing so close their sides pressed against each other. She felt her stomach flip. 

“Investing in real-estate is a smart business decision,” he finally answered. Hermione snorted. “What?”

“You’re not renting it out, and it would have _some_ furniture to showcase the space if you were planning to sell it, so I call bullshit.”

“I didn’t come here to be interrogated, Granger,” said Malfoy.

“You could’ve easily ignored my owl. Why did you come?” asked Hermione. Malfoy held her stare, his eyes darkening. Hermione swallowed, regretting her question. She didn’t think either of them were ready to hear his answer. 

“Anyway, I didn’t mean to interrogate you, it _is_ a gorgeous place, you know?” she said. “Even if it seems a little big for one person.”

“This flat could easily fit inside the Manor’s main library, it’s really not that big,” said Malfoy, shrugging. 

Hermione scoffed. “Such a rich boy thing to say.”

“It is what it is,” said Malfoy, smirking. He turned around, then raised his wand to turn on one of the ceiling lamps, allowing more light to illuminate the room. 

“That’s better, I didn’t notice it was so dark in here.”

“Are you well, Granger?” asked Malfoy, eyes still glued to the ceiling.

Hermione stepped forward, letting her shoes slide along the wooden floor as she twirled around the room. It _was_ a large space, but a couple of couches would do wonders to fill it up. The brick walls would be perfect for large iron shelves; there was enough space that the books wouldn’t be cramped against one another. 

“Granger?” 

If she were Malfoy, she’d throw in a plush rug -- he had enough money to buy one of those fluffy large ones that Hermione always eyed on Muggle stores but felt too flimsy about spending money on. 

“Granger?” he insisted, sounding annoyed. 

Hermione turned to face him, startled to see that he was standing so close that the tip of her shoes bumped against his. 

“What?” she said, feeling her eyes filling up with tears. She closed them. “What do you think?” 

“Open your eyes,” said Malfoy in a firm voice. Hermione did so, but kept her eyes on his chest. She hadn’t even realized he was wearing a casual shirt rather than the button-ups she always saw him in. He’d probably been relaxing in his room when he received her owl. “Come with me.”

Hermione followed Malfoy towards the kitchen area. He didn’t say anything as he opened a cabinet to reveal a large bottle of expensive rum. 

“You don’t have a single piece of furniture, but you keep alcohol in here?” asked Hermione, letting out an incredulous laugh. 

“I thought you might need it,” he shrugged. He glanced at the bottle. “Fuck, I forgot to bring glasses.”

“I’m not really a drinker,” said Hermione.

“I’m not either, but frankly, we both could use a drink.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes, then took the bottle from his hand. She slid down to the ground and sat with her legs crossed and her back against the cabinets. She sat the bottle down in the space between her thighs, then she patted the spot beside her, looking up to see his sneer. 

“Come sit,” said Hermione. 

“I’m not sitting on the bloody floor, Granger. Who do you think I am?” said Malfoy with his nose in the air. “I haven’t been in this place in ages, so it definitely hasn’t been cleaned in a while, honestly, just get up--”

“I already know you’re posh, Malfoy, don’t worry about it,” she snickered. “I’ve seen you sitting on the floor of even dirtier places, or have you forgotten?”

“Your attempt at being cheeky isn’t cute, Granger.”

“Come and bloody sit, I’m _not_ asking,” snapped Hermione. Malfoy raised a brow at her demanding tone 

She was about to get up to tell him how serious she was, when he finally sat down beside her, stretching out his long legs. 

“You don’t tell me what to do,” he snapped. Hermione almost laughed at his tone, but decided to open the bottle instead. She struggled with the cap, slapping his hand away when he tried to take it from her. “You’re so fucking insufferable.”

“I’m opening it!” 

“You’re taking ages.”

“You’re much more tolerable when you’re quiet.” 

“For Salazar’s sake. Just give me the damn bottle, what the fuck--” He yanked it from her hands. He shot her a look when she tried to grab it again, then made quick work of opening the cap. “Done, was that so bloody hard?”

Hermione accepted the bottle when he handed it to her. She cleaned its mouth with her sleeve, then lifted it to her lips, coughing when the first sip hit her throat. 

“This is warm,” she grunted. “It’s really gross.”

“Do you see a fridge here somewhere?” 

“Are you a wizard, Malfoy?” said Hermione in a mocking tone. She grabbed her wand and muttered a cooling charm, then tried to drink the rum again. “Much better.” 

Malfoy shook his head when she offered him the bottle. “I told you I don’t drink.”

“Do you expect me to drink this entire bottle by myself?” 

“You’re the one who looks like you need it, and you don’t have to drink it all,” he said. Hermione looked back at the bottle, cheeks warming with embarrassment. “I have plenty of reasons to judge you, Granger, I’m not going to do it because you’re having some rum.” 

Hermione lifted the bottle to take another sip. The taste of the liquid wasn’t pleasant, but she liked the way it sat low in her belly.

“I got your book,” said Hermione. “I’m going to read it because it’s the polite thing to do, but I’ll let you know in advance that it’s not going to change my mind.”

“Talk to me again when you finish it,” said Malfoy, watching her. “Did you get a good look at my owl?”

“Of course I saw it, you’re so obvious,” she grunted. “It’s a beautiful animal, Malfoy, what do you want me to say? I told you before that the one I sent was a public owl.”

“How about the horrendous creature that sent me your note asking to meet? Do you pick the saddest looking owls on purpose?”

“That was Errol, it’s the Weasley’s family owl,” said Hermione, then frowned. “Okay, I will admit that he’s pretty old. I think he’s half blind, and he used to just drop unconscious when he delivered Ron’s post back at Hogwarts. I don’t know why they still use the poor thing.”

“I’m not surprised,” snickered Malfoy. “But the Weasel has some money now, and isn’t She-Weasel a professional Quidditch player or something? Surely they can afford a new owl.”

“I don’t know,” said Hermione, taking another sip of the alcohol. “It’s weird, now that I think about it.” 

“Are you saying that I’m right?” asked Malfoy, eyebrows raised in shock. 

“No,” snorted Hermione. “I’m saying no such thing, are you mad? I just said I think it’s weird too, but I’m guessing they probably haven’t even thought about it as extensively as you have.”

“Were you at the Weasleys when you sent me the note, then?” asked Malfoy. Hermione grabbed the neck of the bottle and took a long swallow. “Woah, maybe slow down a second?”

Hermione coughed, then pressed a hand to her mouth. Malfoy was looking at her like he was starting to regret being there, and that -- that just wouldn’t do. Hermione handed him the bottle.

“You were the one saying I needed to drink,” said Hermione, not sure whether to be embarrassed or not. 

“So you could relax, not slip into a coma,” said Malfoy, stretching his arm so he could place the bottle on the countertop above them.

“Fine, forgive me,” said Hermione sarcastically. “Molly Weasley decided that the best way to spend the anniversary of another one of her children’s death was to invite everyone over for dinner. I think it’s safe to say it didn’t go well.”

“What happened?”

“What was expected, I suppose,” said Hermione. The alcohol had warmed her enough that the words were easily slipping off her tongue. “It hit all of them in different ways, I think. With Fred, it was shocking and unbearably painful, but the reason behind his death was clear. Everyone knew who to get angry at. And with George, well, I guess at some point we’ve all felt like it could’ve been prevented.”

“So they’re angry at themselves,” stated Malfoy, simply, tone flat. Hermione nodded, because it was the simplest way to describe the entire mess. “And how do you fit in all of this? I fail to see it.”

Hermione laughed bitterly. She’d been forcing down her tears the entire day, but it was getting harder with every question he asked.

“I don’t know, Malfoy, and I think that’s been the problem for a while now. God,” she murmured, then pressed her fingers to her eyelids. “What the hell am I doing here? Why am I telling you all of this?”

“To be honest with you, I have absolutely no idea, Granger.” said Malfoy, exhaling a loud sigh. Hermione wouldn’t blame him if he got up to leave, Instead, he slid closer to her on the floor, raising a hand to pat her softly on the knee. “You’re madder than I initially thought, if you believe I’m fit to handle all of your drama.”

“I have been the shittiest friend lately,” said Hermione. “Unbeliveably shite, like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” chuckled Malfoy. “You’re all about loyalty and all that jest.”

“That doesn’t really do any good when I can’t seem to put anyone else above my own problems, you know?” groaned Hermione. Her head was lighter, buzzing slightly, but she still felt like there were marble rocks sitting in her stomach, dragging her down. “Harry and I can’t talk without me letting my own issues get in the way, and we keep misunderstanding each other. And with Ron, it’s like he wants so much out of me and I can’t give him a fraction of it.”

“That doesn’t make you a bad friend,” shrugged Malfoy. “Not that I would know much about it, but that’s essentially the problem with your lot. You think being self-sacrificial gives you a moral high-ground, that it makes you a better person. Granger, my friends don’t expect anything from me other than what I’m willing to give them.”

“Malfoy,” said Hermione in warning. 

“You shouldn’t have come to me if you didn’t want to hear it, Granger,” he said. “Maybe you haven’t been the perfect model of a friend you made up in your head, so what? _Get over it._ They probably haven’t been good friends to you, either.”

Hermione tried to bite down a sob, but it slipped out of her anyway. She pressed a hand to her mouth to keep herself silent, but there was no controlling the fat teardrops leaking out of her eyes. Her chest heaved with the effort of keeping it in. 

“Fuck,” hissed Malfoy. He gingerly put a hand on her shoulder and patted it lightly. “I didn’t mean to make you bloody cry, Granger.”

“I’m not crying because of you, Malfoy,” said Hermione, her vision fogged as the tears pooled in her eyelids and down her lashes. “Not everything is about you. How conceited can you get?”

“Finding the time to insult me even when you’re in hysterics,” he snickered. Malfoy spoke in a patient tone that Hermione never would’ve expected from him, his fingers now running up and down her back in a soothing motion. “You don’t look pretty when you cry.”

That made Hermione laugh. “You’re such a git, Draco Malfoy,” said Hermione, not really meaning it. 

“It’s the truth,” said Malfoy, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement, as if her laugh was the exact reaction he’d been looking for. “You’re all snot-nosed.”

“I’m sorry my sobbing isn’t up to your standards. Are you not going to offer me your handkerchief?” 

“Woman,” he said in an indulgent tone, “I apparated here as soon as I got your bloody message, do you think I had the time to grab a handkerchief?” 

Hermione giggled again, her sobs finally subsiding. Her chest ached in exhaustion after crying so hard -- her shoulders sagged, and she let her body slump against Malfoy. 

One of Malfoy’s hands was in her hair, and the other was patting her knee softly. Hermione wanted to lay her head down his lap and sleep until she forgot what day it was.

“I must make a sad sight, right now.”

“Pretty much,” he agreed.

Hermione sighed, leaning into his hand in her hair. For a moment, they sat in silence. If Hermione had looked up, she’d find a neutral expression on his face, as if he’d closed himself off so she wouldn’t see too much, too soon. _That boat has sailed_ , she thought. 

"You know what the sad thing is?" asked Hermione, straightening her body so she could look at him. 

Malfoy’s hand fell from her hair, but he kept the other one on her knee."Frankly, there are many sad things about this situation.”

"Yeah, yeah. But the saddest? The saddest thing of it all?"

"Do tell me."

"I feel like they killed me," said Hermione in a flat tone. 

"What,” asked Malfoy, frowning. “Who’s they?”

"Voldemort, his followers. Ron and Harry and their expectations, later on, and not being able to heal my parents, who knows? All of them, all of it,” she shrugged. “When I think about it, truly, it's like they took a knife right through my gut. I bled out. _Drip, drip_ ,” she said, dragging her hands down to mimic rain. 

"What the fuck are you talking about,” said Malfoy, with a mixture of concern and confusion.

"They killed me, Malfoy. That’s what I’m saying.” The words coming out of her mouth were almost like a growl, angry, like they were unearthed from deep inside her chest. “I'm still here, but not really. I think there was a point where I used to be something fantastic. I'd get excited about things, I loved everything. And I know I didn't get the worst out of it, okay? I look at Molly Weasley and all I see is empty. I think of Teddy Lupin, and I want to rip all of my limbs off. And bloody George killing himself, I just--”

Her hands shook. 

“I'm ﬁne, alright? I know I am, but I can't help but think I died with them, in the graveyard we all made of Hogwarts, and now all that’s left are sad attempts at making life more than it is. The war killed me and I'm so fucking mad I still have to deal with it."

Hermione was looking at him as she said it all. She thought she’d feel relief, but there was still fear inside of her -- that she’d been wrong about him. That he would revert to the boy she once knew, and mock her, or tell her she deserved it. That he wouldn’t understand her.

Malfoy let his palm travel up her tight until it covered one of her hands. His skin was cold as he squeezed so tight she felt a shiver run up her spine. 

"That _is_ sad," he said, quite simply. Hermione felt herself take a breath for the first time that day. And then, “You’re very dramatic when you’re drunk, Hermione.”

And she laughed, like it was the easiest thing in the entire world. 

Malfoy chuckled too, in a more subdued manner. And Hermione didn’t hesitate a second, didn’t even stop to reconsider it -- she brought her face close to his, grabbing his chin to drag his face down. They were still laughing as she pressed her lips to his.

And how simple it was -- to laugh against his mouth, to have him laugh back, to press her lips against his once, twice, then a third time, until their laughter cut out and her mind went blank and the only thing she could do was push herself closer to him. Malfoy’s other hand travelled up her back until he pressed his fingers on the pressure point of her neck.

Hermione slightly parted her lips, making it easy -- so _easy_ , for him to slip the tip of his tongue inside. He kissed her thoroughly, surely, like he had thought of doing it before. He kissed her until she could no longer breathe, until she thought that she didn’t need to.

And when they stopped, his nose rubbing against hers as his warm breath brushed her mouth, Hermione was sure she’d feel the reality crashing on her like ice cold water. She kept her eyes closed, paralyzed by her fear of what she’d find when she opened them. 

“Open your eyes, Granger,” said Malfoy, voice unfamiliarly rough. 

Hermione shook her head. 

“Granger, open your eyes,” said Malfoy again, taking his hand from her neck so he could touch the one she had pressed against his face. He lowered both of their hands, then intertwined their fingers. “Please?”

The word sounded so strange coming from him that she found herself nodding. Hermione licked her lips, then slowly opened her eyes.

 _Oh_ , she thought, when her gaze met his.

 _Oh_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is dear to me! a part of draco and hermione's dialogue here was the first thing I wrote down for this story. It was just a spark of an idea that I saved in my phone's notes in the middle of the night so I wouldn't forget, and now it became this monster of a journey that you're riding along with me :) 
> 
> Thank you so much for all the support, it makes all the difference. Let me know in the comments what you think of their first kiss, or find me at @masterofinfinities on tumblr if you want :) see you next update <3


	14. The Stone Inside You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> amazing editing work done by my beta @jeparlepasfrancais

"You do the math, you expect the trouble. The seaside town. The electric fence. Draw a circle with a piece of chalk .Imagine standing in a constant cone of light. Imagine surrender. Imagine being useless **. A stone on the path means the tea's not ready, a stone in the hand means somebody's angry, the stone inside you still hasn't hit bottom** **_._ **" Seaside Improvision, Richard Siken

* * *

Hermione blinked her eyes open. The hard transfigured cot she slept on was digging painfully into her back. Sitting up, she raised her arms above her and stretched, groaning at her stiffness. She reached down and spread her fingers on the cold wooden floor, feeling a sharp twinge low on her spine. An undignified whimper escaped her mouth. 

_I’m never sleeping like this again. Or drinking._

As her brain slowly slipped back into consciousness, Hermione waited for the feelings of regrets to hit her. But when the previous night’s events flashed before her eyes with the staggering inevitability of a car crash, she didn’t feel anything but a flutter low in her stomach and a light-headedness that she wasn’t entirely comfortable with. 

She tried to ignore it, but there was a glaring realization forcing itself to the front of her mind.

 _I kissed Draco Malfoy_. _More than once_. 

“No,” she groaned out loud. “You’re not doing this now, Hermione.”

But as she willed herself to stand up, her mouth feeling like cotton, she thought that it;d be easier to regret the entire ordeal if Malfoy had been the malicious bastard Hermione had expected him to be. 

Unfortunately, Malfoy had decided it was the right time to be decent. He had insisted that she stay at his apartment to sleep off the liquor, and after making sure she was okay, left to spend the night at the Manor. 

Now, Hermione couldn’t figure out what her next step was supposed to be. 

If there even _should be_ a next step.

She ran her tongue over the back of her teeth, itching for a tooth brush. The sun was peeking through Malfoy’s large windows. She stared at it, her mind reeling. 

“No,” she reminded herself. 

Her head hurt, and she wasn’t eager to analyze Malfoy’s actions before she’d had a cup of coffee. It was just her overactive brain, trying to sabotage her as it always did. 

Hermione forced herself to walk towards the fireplace. Before she left, she turned around to take in the room, trying to memorize as much of it as possible. It _was_ a beautiful place. Too beautiful to go to waste like that. 

“I hope Malfoy does something with it,” she mumbled.

Then she grabbed a fistful of Floo powder, surprised at her own reluctance to leave the temporary safe haven that place had become. 

_

Hermione was laying on her bed, reading the fourth chapter of _Flying High: The Global History of Broom Racing_ , and waiting patiently for the hangover potion to alleviate the throbbing in her head. 

In the secrecy of her own thoughts, she could admit that Malfoy was right -- a well-written book on the history of flying could actually hold her interest, even if she wasn’t likely to change her mind about flying itself. As her headache ebbed, she felt almost content. Crookshanks was purring from his place by her feet. The sound calmed and comforted her, and Hermione felt her eyes grow heavier.

She sat straight up when her door abruptly opened.

“What?” she yelped.

Harry didn’t say anything as he closed the door and approached the bed, sitting down on its edge. He looked grim, and Hermione had a feeling that she wouldn’t like whatever he was going to say. 

“You left yesterday,” said Harry. “Without letting anyone know.”

“Harry,” said Hermione with forced patience. “I don’t appreciate you barging in my room like that. What if I were naked?”

“Are you serious, Hermione?” snapped Harry. “If you were naked, the door would’ve been locked. And I’m trying to talk to you about something serious.”

“I realize that,” she said slowly, “but I’m also _very_ serious when I say that you should ask for permission to enter even if my door is wide open.” Ignoring Harry’s scowl, she continued. “Harry, you and Ginny went up to her room. Bill and Fleur had left. Ronald was sulking in his bedroom and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley weren’t in the condition to keep anyone company. What was I supposed to do?”

“I came down ten minutes later to check up on you, Hermione,” said Harry in an accusing tone.

“And how on earth was I supposed to know that?” 

“You would’ve known if you hadn’t left.”

“Harry,” said Hermione, snapping her book shut. “I feel like you’re looking for a reason to fight with me, and I’m not going to indulge you.”

“You think I enjoy arguing with you, Hermione?” asked Harry. He watched through narrowed eyes as Hermione set her book on the bedside table and stood up from the bed. 

“It would seem so, since you’re picking on me for something so ridiculous,” said Hermione, walking over to her bookshelf. She pulled out a book and turned it over in her hands. “Harry, they should’ve been together as a family. Why are you mad about me for leaving when they clearly didn’t need me there?” she said, hating that she felt the need to defend herself from him. 

“You _are_ family, Hermione,” said Harry indignantly. “Don’t you realize it hurts when you talk like you’re not one of us? You’re always pushing us away.”

Hermione closed her eyes and counted to three. She still felt raw from the night before. Malfoy’s words echoed in her ear: _They probably haven’t been good friends to you, either_. 

“Harry, I’m sorry that I haven’t been the best friend to you, lately,” she said hesitantly. “Maybe I should’ve been more clear that I can’t handle being in situations like that right now. I swear I’ve tried to tell you this before, but you still insist and I still make myself go--”

“So you’re mad at me because I want you to be with the family?” interrupted Harry. 

“I’m not mad, Harry. You’re the one who seems mad.”

“I’m mad at you because you bailed on an important moment with people that consider you family. If you hadn’t gone home the second it became _uncomfortable_ \--” said Harry, making air quotes, “you would've known that when I came down, Ron did too. We talked, and less than an hour later, Ginny, Arthur and Molly showed up. We finished the dinner and talked about Fred and George. We played games.”

Hermione felt guilt surge inside of her.

“Things were shitty, but we turned them around like we always do.”

It didn’t require much effort to catch the accusing undertone in his words.

Deep down, Hermione knew she still wouldn’t have stayed. Her conversation with Ron was fresh on her mind. 

“I’m sorry, Harry, but--”

“I came back to look for you and you weren’t there, Hermione. Where did you go?”

“That’s irrelevant,” said Hermione, her voice low. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there, and I’m glad that things were okay in the end. But I stand by what I said, Harry,” she rushed the words out. “Did Ron tell you what he said to me?”

“Ron was hurt, Hermione.”

“I know,” said Hermione in a pleading tone. “I don’t blame him. But my head is a mess right now, and maybe we both need some time to cool off, but you realize he was upset with me, right? I doubt me being there was going to be help--”

“You’re wrong,” he insisted. “He would’ve liked you being there, we all would’ve.”

“I already apologized,” snapped Hermione, growing frustrated. “Which, frankly, is more than you’ve done. So can we move on?”

“What do I have to apologize for, Hermione?” 

“You’re being a jerk, Harry, and you hid things from me, more than once. I know why, and I tried to move on from it. But sometimes I feel like I don’t even know you anymore.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” said Harry, standing up from the bed. “You’re a completely different person.”

“Of course I am,” snarled Hermione. “I’ve _been_ a different person. I’m not as good as you at pretending everything is fine. Harry, it’s been less than a year since I found out that I lost my parents for good.”

“Are you going to let that dictate the rest of your life?” said Harry. Hermione flinched. “I don’t even remember my parents being alive, Hermione. I understand you’re upset, but maybe it’s time to start looking towards the future. Ron wants to give you--”

“You need to get out.”

“Excuse me?”

“Get out, Harry,” said Hermione, walking towards the door and pulling it open. “I can’t believe you’re using my grief to campaign for Ron.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know--”

“I don’t care,” said Hermione loudly. “I really don’t care right now, Harry Potter.”

“You’re being unreasonable,” said Harry, slowly stepping towards the door.

“That’s fine by me, it seems I’m very unreasonable these days,” said Hermione. He paused, as if waiting for her to change her mind and ask him to stay. “Get out, Harry.”

Hermione saw the color drain from his face. She braced herself for an argument, but Harry just clenched his jaw and marched past her. He slammed the door behind him, and she heard his feet pound the floor as he marched down the corridor.

Hermione stared at the closed door for a couple of seconds, then turned on her heel and threw herself on the bed. She grabbed a pillow and squeezed it to her face, feeling like there was a whirlwind inside of her. 

Crookshanks crawled next to her, meowing loudly. He used his paws to nudge the pillow away. Hermione grunted, but relented, letting the pillow fall to the floor and taking Crookshanks into her arms. She rested her cheek on his fur and sighed, feeling a little less alone. 

If Hermione closed her eyes, she could picture the cold wooden floors of Malfoy’s flat. _He made me laugh_ , she thought. Strangely, the regret she expected still hadn’t come. 

She had no idea why.

 _But maybe_ , thought Hermione--

 _Maybe_ it was because despite the overwhelming desire that had rushed through her when they kissed, what had struck her the most was how he’d made her laugh through her tears. _Over and over again._

That was what made Hermione want to be right back there with him. 

_ 

The next morning, Hermione awoke to her growling stomach. 

Grumbling under her breath, she patted the bed with her eyes closed, but Crookshanks wasn’t anywhere to be found. She popped an eye open, and her stomach made another loud sound. Afraid to face Harry, Hermione hadn't left her room for dinner, falling asleep with a hungry stomach and bitter heart. She turned to check her clock -- Harry was already at work. 

Hermione freshened up in the bathroom and threw on a soft looking shirt and pair of sweats. Her cat was asleep in front of the door, as if guarding it from unwelcome intruders. She smiled, then nudged him with her foot and unlocked the door. 

She tiptoed her way down the corridor, just in case he was still there. Hermione mumbled a prayer of gratitude when she noticed the apartment was safely empty, relief making her steps lighter. She decided to fix herself a proper English breakfast to compensate for last night’s lack of dinner. 

When she was done cooking, Hermione levitated the plates to the small dinner table. Her stomach finally settled after a couple of bites of toast and a half cup of coffee. She grabbed a piece of bacon with a fork, then reached for the newest edition of _The Daily Prophet_. Reading the newspaper always felt like a punishment, but Hermione couldn’t control her curiosity. She’d rather know what was being said about her than be oblivious to it. 

She smiled in relief when neither her nor her friends appeared on the front cover. But when she reread the page’s headline, blood rushed to her face. 

_Pureblood Bachelor Seen Canoodling with Political Heiress _

_By Padma Patil_

_As autumn gives way to bitter winter, everyone seems to be hunting for a special someone to cuddle up with. When the snow starts falling, ‘tis the season for a crackling fire and a cauldron full of hot, strong love. And for those singles out there, we’re standing by to provide the juiciest news to warm you right up. Rest assured, today we’ve got something blazing hot for you._

_A couple of weeks back, we reported that Draco Malfoy and Daphne Greengrass were seen making googly eyes at each other in the St. Mungo’s Anniversary Ball. And it appears that we can finally put our speculations to rest._

_A reliable source told us that the former Death Eater (should we call him reformed?) and the daughter of one of the Wizarding World’s most prominent families are officially courting. Our source was vague with details, but one thing is for sure: both Malfoy and Greengrass are definitely off the market._

_Daphne’s demure smile (and her family’s formidable political connections) might be just the thing to get the youngest Malfoy to finally settle down, , and we definitely would gush over some blond-haired, green-eyed babies. We’ll be keeping our eyes on this couple._

Hermione read the article twice before it sank in. She tore off the page and crumpled it into a ball, tossed it in the air, and burned it to a crisp. 

As the ashes fell onto her plate and ruined her breakfast, Hermione felt the urge to find Draco Malfoy and set _him_ on fire.

“That bloody bastard.”

___

“I read something quite interesting this morning,” said Theo, his voice a pitch too high. 

He was at the bar, pouring firewhiskey into crystal glasses. Even with his back turned to him, Draco would bet his entire inheritance that Theo had a smarmy grin on his lips.

“Good for you,” Draco mumbled, then took a drag of his cigarette.

Predictably, Theo turned around with a smile. He carried a tray with four glasses full with amber liquid over to the table, setting one in front of Draco before placing the tray on the center of the table. 

“Don’t be shy now,” said Theo, slouching into a chair. “I _know_ that you kiss and tell.”

 _If you only knew_ , thought Draco. 

He had kissed Hermione Granger. More than once. He couldn’t seem to stop thinking about it. Two days had passed with his brain in a fog, making it impossible for him to focus on anything for too long. It was a especial type of torture, the way his head had become so twisted. 

“Earth to Draco,” said Theo, waving a hand in front of his face. Draco grabbed his wrist and squeezed, smirking when Theo grunted in pain. “Why are you so bloody aggressive?”

“Shut it, Theo.”

“You’re not going to dish?”

“Are you fifteen?” said Draco, exhaling smoke into Theo’s face. “Adults do not _dish_.”

“Whatever,” said Theo, rolling his eyes. He couldn’t stifle his smirk. “You’re shagging Daphne. I admit I didn’t see that one coming.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Pansy told me--”

“What’s going on?” said Daphne, stepping out of the fireplace and into the room. Pansy followed behind her. 

“Speaking of the devil,” said Theo, turning in his chair to greet them. “Not _you_ , of course, Daphne.” 

“After ten years, you’re still learning to respect me the hard way, Theodore Nott,” said Pansy in a sweet voice. “Don’t make me embarrass you.”

“Were you talking about me?” said Daphne, sitting down in the chair next to Draco. That made Theo narrow his eyes at them. 

“First of all, you haven’t scared me in years, Pansy Parkinson,” said Theo. He nodded at Daphne. “Second of all, I was only saying good things, my dear.”

“Is that true, Draco?” asked Daphne. 

“I can’t say. I barely hear what comes out of his mouth, it’s like he’s speaking gibberish,” said Draco. Daphne smiled at him. 

They hadn’t talked about what they were going to tell their friends, but Draco’s policy was always to _not_ say anything unless strictly necessary.

“You dare insult me at my own house?” bellowed Theo with feigned offense. He yelped in pain when Pansy sank her long nails into his shoulder. “This is assault! I’m sending you to Azkaban.”

“I was only saying hello,” said Pansy with a sardonic smile as she picked the chair closest to Theo. 

“Save it.”

Draco crushed the butt of his cigarette down on the ashtray. He wondered if Granger had such easy relationships with her friends -- her rant the other night had suggested otherwise. No wonder she always seemed to be barely keeping a lid on it: she didn’t have anyone she could relax with. 

But he had made her laugh, _several times_. She had acted like doing so surprised her, as if the act had become foreign to her. The thought of being the one responsible for it made him feel a strange sort of pride.

“Draco,” said Daphne, patting his thigh to get his attention. 

“What?”

“Pansy was talking to you.”

Draco blinked, then turned towards Pansy, who was studying him through narrowed eyes. He arched a brow at her, and she smiled.

“Are you all silent and brooding because you’re worried about what I’m going to think?” 

“Think about what?”

“Don’t be daft,” said Pansy, looking down at her nails nonchalantly. “We all know what’s going on here.”

Draco lit up another cigarette and looked at Daphne from the corner of his eyes. She shrugged at him, and Draco decided not to respond. If he didn’t admit to anything, they wouldn’t be able to accuse him of lying if they later found out about the ruse. 

“They’re being all secretive,” said Theo, “as if they weren’t rubbing their lovey-doveyness all over the faces of the entire Wizarding World. I always knew Draco was an attention whore, but Daphne? I’m _quite_ surprised.”

“You’re so dramatic, Theo,” said Daphne. “We went to the St. Mungo’s ball, everyone there was photographed.”

“Not everyone ended up on the cover of _The Daily Prophet,_ ” said Pansy, sipping her firewhiskey.

“Not on purpose,” said Draco. “We stayed out of the way. It was Granger and the Weasel who were twirling like gazelles all over the dance floor.”

 _That arsehold_ , he thought bitterly. Draco had felt a mixture of discomfort, concern, and deep-seated anger as he had watched Granger sob uncontrollably. The Weasel was clearly being slimy. And Potter wasn’t much better if he wasn’t helping her fend him off. 

“Draco,” snapped Pansy. “Are you bloody drunk already?”

“What?” he grunted. “I don’t even fucking drink.”

“You’re clearly not here, what’s going on with you?”

“This conversation is so dull I can’t manage to pay attention, that’s what’s going on,” snapped Draco. His statement was probably true.

“I was saying that I’m not angry at you,” said Pansy, sounding genuinely hurt. Draco bit down a momentary feeling of guilt. 

“What would you even be angry about, Pansy?” he asked.

Pansy rolled her eyes, then turned to hand Theo her glass for a refill. He grumbled, but stood up and walked towards the bar.

“Because neither of my best friends told me that they were dating,” she said. “I’m mad, but I’ll forgive you because I’m happy for you. Especially you, Draco. After I dumped you I seriously thought you’d never find someone willing to put up with your shite.”

Draco raised his hand to flip her the bird, but couldn’t help but nudge her foot under the table. Pansy gave him a quick smile before rearranging her face into a scowl. 

_Granger doesn’t smile like that_. Granger’s smile was all teeth, like she didn’t have anything to hide. 

Draco groaned inwardly. He’d do anything to _stop_ seeing her in everything. He didn’t need to look hard to find plenty of reasons why being around her was wrong for him. 

Granger didn’t fit -- not with his friends, not in any area of his life. There was no amount of mental acrobatics available to make her seem _right_ for him. She would take up too much space. Space he wasn’t willing to make for her, wasn’t even sure he’d be able to, if he could. _It’s not like you have a choice_ , thought Draco, his heart racing. _You’re weak as fuck and you can’t stop her._

It was clear in his mind, even when he ignored the small matter of her blood status and her control over his probation.

“We lost him again,” said Theo, watching him with mild concern. “What did you do to the poor lad, Daphne?”

“I’ve done absolutely nothing,” she responded, lifting her glass to her mouth. She gave Draco a long look, frowning as she studied him. “He’s acting strange, though.”

“I can hear you,” snapped Draco.

“Can you really?” asked Theo.

Draco sighed and stood up. He walked over the huge glass wall, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips. The Nott Manor overlooked a beautiful lake. He and Theo used to spend hours swimming there, when they were boys. These days, Draco had no idea why Theo had kept the house. It was too big for one person.

 _That’s what Granger said about your apartment_ , he thought. Before it could take over his head, Draco smashed the thought and cigarette butt against a nearby ashtray, then turned towards his friends. 

They were all watching him with variations of concern.

“Well?” asked Draco. “Are you going to keep gaping at me like fish?”

Theo snorted. “If you’re back on planet earth, I have something I want to talk to you guys about.”

Draco leaned against the window and crossed his arms.

“Who are you gossiping about tonight?”

“No one in particular,” said Theo, ignoring Draco’s sarcasm. “I’ve been talking to my sources, and I’m very intrigued about some of the moves our dear old relatives are trying to pull.”

“Spit it out, Theo,” said Pansy. “I’m aging here.”

“You’re very impatient,” he scolded her. “It would do you good to learn the importance of timing. It’s key for storytelling.”

“So you admit you’re just fabricating things?” retorted Pansy.

“No such thing.” Theo shook a finger in denial. “My sources are very reliable. So, I’ve heard some whispers of changes within the Wizengamot…”

“What do you mean?” asked Pansy.

“If you’ll let me speak,” snapped Theo, “I was saying that I heard about changes at the Wizengamot. Since the first Wizarding War ended, quite a few families have had vacant chairs. For generations, nobody seemed to care. But all of a sudden, some families have been urgent to reclaim them. It makes you think--”

“Now that the war ended, everyone’s interested in the Wizengamot again, Theo,” said Daphne mildly. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“I beg to differ,” said Theo. “They all have the sudden desire out of nowhere to get involved? I don’t think so. I bet there’s something going on behind the scenes.” Theo moved his hands to mimic pulling puppet strings. 

“Who are you talking about? Don’t _you_ have a chair?” asked Pansy, leaning back in her chair and trying to look bored.

“I don’t know _exactly_ who,” said Theo in an irritated voice, “but I’ve heard there’s a lot of action in the Wizengamot right now. And I _do_ have a chair, but it’s been vacant for over five generations now. The Notts have been more interested in money than political power, I have no plan to change that,” he said with a smirk.

Draco listened to the conversation with nothing more than mild curiosity. He looked in Daphne’s direction -- she was staring at her glass while Pansy and Theo talked over her. She glanced up when she felt his gaze, their eyes meeting. Draco shot a pointed look at their friends and rolled his eyes, and Daphne swallowed a chuckle. 

“What do you think, Draco?” asked Pansy, turning to him.

“I think I should head home,” he said, moving away from the wall. 

“It’s early!” said Daphne. “And we just got here.”

“But it feels like it’s been hours,” said Draco, stepping towards the table to grab his wand, “and we have a rehab meeting tomorrow.”

“You need your beauty sleep so you look all pretty for Granger?” asked Theo. He grunted when Draco kicked his chair. “So sensitive today.”

“I can’t stand you,” spat Draco. He bent down to kiss Daphne on the cheek. “Get yourself a bird and get off my arse, Nott, or I swear to Merlin--”

Theo threw his hands up in an appeasing motion. “I’m stopping now, I was just messing with you.”

Draco only shook his head and walked towards the fireplace.

As he stepped into his study, Draco felt annoyed at himself. He couldn’t keep letting every thought or mention of Granger grate at him. She was like a thorn on his side, ever present and incredibly bothersome.

Draco let his muscle memory guide him as he left the study and he walked down the hallway without registering his surroundings.

He was startled when Minzy suddenly appeared in front of him. 

“Master,” said the elf urgently. “The Mistress is looking for you.”

“Minzy,” blurted Draco, “please don’t show up in front of me like that.” The elf immediately bowed, her body shaking as she started kneeling. “Oh, please don’t do that. I’ve told you many times that I don’t like you kneeling. Stand up.”

“Minzy apologizes, Master. Minzy didn’t mean to startle you,” she whispered. Draco exhaled and waited as she straightened herself. “Minzy is very sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he grunted. “My mother is looking for me?”

“Mistress ordered Minzy to tell Master to see her as soon as Master arrived at the Manor,” said Minzy, nodding rapidly. “Mistress was very insistent.”

“Where is she now?”

“Mistress is in the tea room.”

“Thank you, Minzy. You’re dismissed.”

“Minzy will go then, Master.”

When she disappeared, Draco debated pretending that he hadn’t run into Mintzy and going up to his room instead. Knowing that his behavior would be blamed on Minzy, he drag his feet towards the tea room.

His mother was sitting in the left corner of the room in front of a small round oak table. Her pinky finger pointed upwards as she sipped from the teacup, the very picture of a traditional pureblooded witch. 

She didn’t turn to look at Draco as he walked further into the room, but he knew she was aware of his presence.

Narcissa looked up only when he sat in the chair across from her. Her expression looked solemn in a way that made Draco want to immediately apologize. 

“You asked for me, mother?” 

“Hours ago, yes, but you weren’t home.”

“You were the one who insisted I should have more of a social life,” muttered Draco. Narcissa shot him a sharp look.

“Would I be wrong to assume you were with Theodore?”

“I was,” said Draco.“but Daphne was there as well.”

That seemed to appease her. She dabbed her lips with a napkin and cracked a biscuit in four, delicately lifting one small morsel to her mouth.

“That’s good,” said Narcissa. “I’m not trying to control you, Draco. I’m just worried you aren’t taking our last conversation as seriously as it deserves.”

“I’m dating Daphne now, aren’t I?” said Draco, his shoulders sagging. “I’m doing exactly what you asked of me, mother.” 

_Like I’ve always done_ , he thought, an onslaught of memories invading his mind -- the excruciating pain of having the dark mark carved into his arms, the fear of raising his wand against Dumbledore. 

“It’s not supposed to be a burden,” said his mother. “I’m proud of you, but I hope you know Daphne is only the first step.”

“Step to what?” 

“Restoring our reputation, of course.” Draco nodded, not wanting to get dragged into another argument. “This actually isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Which is?”

“Have you owled your father recently?” asked Narcissa in a concerned voice. “I’m worried about his health.”

“The healer examined him, mother. He said father had a nasty case of the sniffles, he’s probably better by now,” said Draco, his stomach lurching at the mention of his father.

“It’s still persisting, and he’s sounded very forlorn in his last few letters. He keeps asking about you, Draco,” she said, leaning forwards to grab his hand. “I insist you talk to him.”

“I talk to him, mother. I send him weekly updates about our investments, as he asked me to. I don’t know what else he wants from me,” he said, frowning. 

“Do you want your last message to your dying father to be about investments?”

“He’s not dying, mother, he has a cold,” spat Draco, dragging his hand back. “The way you keep talking about it, it’s like you _want_ him to be dead.” 

Narcissa flinched. A crease formed between her brows. Draco looked down, stomach sinking with guilt. 

“How dare you?” asked Narcissa, her voice low. “I love your father, it kills me to be away from him, especially in a moment like this.”

“I’m sorry--” 

“Go to your bedroom, Draco,” said Narcissa. “We’re done talking.”

“Mother--”

“I said we are done,” she snapped, her voice final. 

Draco slowly rose from his chair, hesitating. His mother wasn’t looking at him anymore, her gaze fixed on a painting of his great-great aunt. 

“I will owl him a letter tomorrow morning,” he offered, stepping away from the table. “I’ll tell him about Daphne.” 

A sharp nod was her only reaction. Draco turned on his heel, quickly marching out of the tea room towards his bedroom. When he arrived, he shut and locked the door, stripped his clothes off, and walked into the bathroom, where he turned on the shower. 

As he stood with cold water beating down on his back, eyelids squeezed tight, Draco thought about the cold floor of his empty apartment, devoid of food or furniture but alive with Hermione Granger -- her reminding him of the uncontrolled wildness of a hurricane, and he too busy trying to wrap his head around having her there, to worry about the mess that was the rest of his life.

_

Granger was mad at him. 

Which would have been unremarkable, if it hadn’t been so long since Draco had seen her act like this: completely unwilling to acknowledge his presence. Draco shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

She had changed the room’s arrangement, moving the chairs into a circle. Theo and Rookwood were to Draco’s left and right, and Granger was facing him directly.

“What did you do to piss Granger off?” whispered Theo. “She’s totally avoided looking over here, and when she does, it’s like she expects you to suddenly burst into flames.”

“I have no idea,” hissed Draco.

“Are you having a lovers’ quarrel?”

“Theo, I’m going to hex you so hard you’re going to get cross--”

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t have side conversations while I’m talking,” snapped Granger. “You’re not children, so don’t behave like them.”

“I apologize, Granger,” said Theo, sounding perky. “We were just talking about how beautiful your dress is.”

Today, Granger had exchanged her shapeless robes for a long-sleeved sundress that fell down to her ankles. The dress was green with white polka dots, with a v-neck. Granger’s glare cut him off before he could stare too hard at the top of her cleavage. 

“I’d prefer you didn’t,” said Granger in an irritated voice. She turned towards the rest of the group. “So, shall we begin?”

“Why are we sitting like this?” asked Millicent.

“I thought we’d try something different today,” said Granger. She bent down to grab her purse, quickly fishing out pieces of parchments and a few quills. She handed them to Millicent. “Grab a parchment and a quill and pass it around, please.”

Once everyone held one of each, Granger continued. “I want you to write about your conversation with a Muggle-born, as I assigned you last meeting. Write the name of the person you talked to on top, but you don’t need to sign it.”

“How are you going to know we aren’t lying if we don’t sign it?” asked Pansy.

“I’m taking a leap of faith here,” said Granger. “I want you all to be honest about the conversation and what you thought, even if it’s something I’d consider offensive. I won’t know who wrote what, so there’s no reason to sugarcoat your impressions. Be as honest as possible.”

“I have no problem with that,” said Pansy. “Are you going to stare at us while we write? That makes me uncomfortable.”

“I’m not going to look at you,” said Granger, bending down once again to take a book out of her purse. Draco felt a prickle of disappointment when he squinted to read the title -- it wasn’t the book he had given her. “You have fifteen minutes.”

“What if I need more time?” asked Draco. He watched as Granger forced herself to look at him with a polite expression. 

“Make sure you don’t,” she said neutrally, lifting the book high to obstruct her view of his face. 

Draco looked down at his parchment, then began writing, sneaking glances in her direction from time to time. But she continued to read her book, refusing to make eye contact. _She hijacks my night to sob on my shoulder, and now she won’t even look at me?_ he thought, squeezing the quill tight in his hand. 

“Time’s up,” said Granger. “Pass over your parchment, please.” 

When she had gathered all of the parchments, she carefully folded them and put them on her purse, then took out another folder. Granger handed it over to Millicent, motioning for her to take one and pass on the folder. 

Draco frowned at an old headline of the _The Daily Prophet_ that read _Death Eater Terror Continues_ in big bold letters above a photo of the Dark Mark hanging high over the London bridge.

“I looked for newspaper and magazine articles that were published during the war,” said Granger, crossing one leg over the other as she studied their faces. “Do you remember what you were doing when the event of the headline you’re holding happened?”

“My headline talks about the Gringotts break-in,” said Theo, an unusually bleak expression on his face. “I remember reading it that morning. I had left Hogwarts to go back to the Manor. My father had died the week before, and they needed someone to put down the wards so they could use the house.”

“Do you remember what you were feeling when you read that headline?”

“What do you think, Granger?” huffed Theo. “I wanted the entire damn thing to be over. I didn’t want a bloody war. Most of us didn’t.”

“Speak for yourself,” sneered Rookwood, giving Theo a look of disgust. “My headline talks about the takeover of an Order safehouse. Five Order members were brought to the Dark Lord. It was one of my brother’s most successful missions.”

Draco studied Granger. The last time she had goaded Rookwood in participating, things hadn’t ended up well. He had half a mind to interrupt before things escalated. 

“I think it’s quite sad that you feel proud about that,” said Granger quietly, giving Rookwood a firm stare. Draco felt a twinge of pride. “How about you, Pansy?” 

“I was at Hogwarts. Just like I was during the entire bloody war, Granger,” she snapped. “What is the point of this?”

“Things weren’t easy at Hogwarts,” she said, leaning towards Pansy. “Children were regularly being tortured.”

“Not Slytherin children,” answered Pansy, staring at her feet. “I didn’t like it either, Granger. It wasn’t-- it wasn’t pleasant, okay?”

“That must have been hard, Pansy,” said Granger. “To see it and not be able to do anything.”

“Why would you think she’d do anything?” asked Rookwood, crossing his arms. 

“Because she’s not a psychopath,” snapped Theo. “Unlike you.”

“You all want to act so high and mighty in front of Granger,” he retorted. “But all of you were involved in this, Malfoy here even took the mark--”

“Shut the fuck up, Rookwood,” said Draco without looking at him. His were eyes glued on Granger. He saw a glimmer of something on her eyes, fading too quick for him to decipher it.

“Are you ashamed, Malfoy?” asked Rookwood with a sneer.

“I don’t have to tell you shite,” snapped Draco. 

“That’s enough,” said Granger. “Millicent, how about your headline?”

“Well,” said Millie, as if the words were being dragged out of her. “My headline was about the Death Eaters storming that Weasley wedding. I think I was at home, actually. But I didn’t know much about what was going on back then.”

“How did you feel about it?”

“I wasn’t--” said Millicent in a shaky voice, “I-- I didn’t know about it. And after, I only did what my family told me to do.”

“You don’t have to tell her anything, Millie,” said Pansy, shooting Granger a look.

“She does, actually,” murmured Granger. “And there wasn’t a problem with her answer. I just wanted to understand. Right now, when you see actual evidence of what happened during the war, do you feel any regret that you were part of it?”

“My headline talks about the growth in Death Eater numbers,” said Draco in an uncharacteristically rough voice. He cleared his throat. “Like Theo said, most of us don’t want another war, Granger.”

“That’s fine,” said Granger, still not looking at him, “but if for some reason it were to happen, would you make the same choices you made four years ago? Knowing what you know now?”

None of them responded. Draco turned the question over in his head. When he thought about his seventeen year-old self, he mostly felt ashamed. And then bursts of boundless anger -- anger at his father, and at the world at large. Anger at himself. The fury inside of him was so tangled that he didn’t know how to sort it, so Draco didn’t think about it too hard. 

“I don’t think you would,” said Granger. “I think you’re smart people, I think you know better. I think none of you are the same you used to be.”

“Maybe you think too much,” said Draco.

“Maybe you don’t think enough,” she snapped back. _Fuck this_ , he thought, feeling frustrated and raw. 

They were too different. That much was clear. Maybe Granger had it right -- maybe it was best to pretend that the other night hadn’t happened at all. Maybe Draco had been foolish for even considering otherwise. _She can deal with her own issues_ , he thought, _it doesn’t have anything to do with me._

“Our time is up,” said Granger, sounding tired. “Give our conversation today some thought, will you?” 

Draco ran a hand through his hair as he made his way to the door, brushing past Granger without a word. Theo fell into an easy step beside him.

“Are you alright, mate?” asked Theo. “Granger was on a roll today.”

“She’s always on a roll,” snapped Draco. “I’m so sick of this damn program.”

“I don’t know,” shrugged Theo. “I think maybe Granger is onto something, you know? If we keep going the way we used to, what’s to say that another war won’t happen?”

“Theo--”

“I don’t want all that to happen again,” he rushed out, looking uncomfortable.“I’m too young and pretty for all that angst and bloodbath, once was enough for a lifetime,” he joked.

“It’s not going to happen, Theo,” said Draco.

“How are you so sure?”

 _Because we are not our fucking parents_ , thought Draco. He stopped in his tracks, making Theo pause. 

“I think I forgot something in the solarium,” said Draco, pointing a thumb towards the corridor they had just turned. He felt his heart race as he started to retreat. “I’m going to have to go back.”

“I can wait for you.”

“No need, you can go. Catch up with Pansy, she seemed a little off,” said Draco, already turning on his heel. Theo said something, but he didn’t catch it as he marched back.

As Draco approached the solarium, he felt a strange feeling low on his stomach, like there was no turning back. As he opened the door, finding Granger pointing her wand at chairs, wild curls escaping from the knot on top of her hair, Draco felt like being there was more of a choice than anything else he had ever done.

His heart sped up with overwhelming fear. 

He stepped into the room.

He hesitated, a voice in the back of his head bellowed with urgency, a warning made of -- _there’s still time to turn around, to run away before this gets out of your control._

He called out her name anyway. 

_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah, I don't know how to express how overwhelmed I am by the feedback I got last chapter. I'm so genuinely happy that you're all enjoying the story, but most of all, I'm so happy that characters' journeys are resonating with all of you. Thank you so much for coming along with me on this ride!
> 
> When I think of Draco, I see him as someone who made bad choices, sure, but I also see him as a kid who wasn't always able to make choices of his own, and there's something about feeling that particular brand of powerlessness, right? I wanted to explore a bit of that this chapter, and how that would relate to his feelings for Hermione. Let me know what you think about this on the comments, and how you see their conversation going ;) looking forward to hearing from you.


	15. Suddenly Flames Everywhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter edited by the lovely @jeparlepasfrancais

**"Love always wakes the dragon and suddenly flames everywhere.** I can tell already you think I’m the dragon, that would be so like me, but I’m not. **I’m not the dragon. I’m not the princess either.** " Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out, Richard Siken

* * *

“Granger.”

Hermione didn’t turn around. 

She kept fiddling with the chairs, trying to control the fluttering feeling in her stomach. The tips of her shoes scraped against the floor as she moved in quick and short strides. 

“Granger, I know you can hear me.”

She blew a stray curl away from her face and mumbled a _reducio_ towards the last chair. 

“Ah, for fucks sake,” he muttered. “Talk to me, Granger, _please._ ”

Hermione turned around and placed her hands on her hips in a defensive posture. She was afraid of what she would say once she opened her mouth, and that the intensity of her emotions would expose her in a way that she wasn’t ready for.

“Why are you ignoring me, Granger?”

She opened and closed her mouth a couple of times, trying to come up with something to say that wouldn’t reveal the depth of her feelings. She couldn’t think of anything. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m bloody serious,” said Malfoy, growing steadily aggravated. “I wasted an entire night trying to talk you off a ledge and now you’re back to ignoring me?”

“Oh, please, Malfoy,” said Hermione with gritted teeth. “You’re not my bloody savior, I don’t owe you anything.” 

Malfoy sighed and rubbed a hand up and down his face. “I didn’t come here to fight with you.”

“You think throwing the other night in my face is going to help your case?” said Hermione, a pitch too high. 

“I don’t even know what case I’m supposed to be making,” he hissed. “And I didn’t mean to throw anything in your face.”

Hermione tapped her foot against the floor and considered him. Malfoy was holding himself stiffly, but the look on his face was more pleading than angry. Hermione felt some of her anger melt away as she watched him struggle. 

“You really don’t know what I’m mad about?” she asked. 

“I really don’t,” said Malfoy, voice full of frustration. 

“You’re dating Daphne Greengrass,” said Hermione, unable to keep the hurt out of her voice. Malfoy’s eyebrows raised high on his forehead. “Why didn’t you tell me, Malfoy?” 

He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could speak, Hermione held out a hand to silence him. “You don’t owe me anything, but you could’ve said something the other night, it’s not fair to her--”

“I’m going to cut you off right there--”

“No, let me speak,” she insisted. “We kissed, Malfoy. And I’m not comfortable that we went behind someone’s back like that, if I had known--”

“Granger,” said Malfoy, stepping closer to her. Hermione leaned away. 

“You _should_ have stopped it, what’s wrong with you? I don’t know Daphne personally, and I know perfectly well that you and I are nothing more than acquaintances, but it’s not fair to me that I participated in your cheating without my knowledge--”

“Aw, Granger,” he said. “You got it all wrong.”

Hermione’s eyes widened in anger. “How did I get it wrong? There’s no way that _smooching_ me when you have a girlfriend is right.” Malfoy was poorly disguising a smirk. Hermione felt the anger hit her full speed again, and her heart was threatening to explode out of her chest. 

“You’re laughing at me?” said Hermione in a dangerous voice. 

“ _No,_ I’m not,” he said quickly. “It’s just a funny word. Listen--”

“I’m talking about something serious and you’re worried about my choice in words?” 

“You haven’t let me get a word in since this conversation started!” exclaimed Malfoy. “Will you let me bloody speak before you go around accusing me of shite?”

“Fine,” she said sharply. “You have ten seconds to explain yourself.” 

“That’s actually impossible, but okay,” said Malfoy, nodding. “Since this seems to be getting your wand in a knot and I don’t like making my life harder than it has to be, I will tell you that--”

“You’re stalling.”

“I’m not,” he insisted. “Granger, I’m trying to tell you that I’m not dating Daphne Greengrass.”

“You’re lying.”

“Why did you agree to listen to me if you’re not going to believe what I say?” he groaned. “You read that bloody article Patil wrote, didn’t you? Everyone knows it’s just gossip.”

“Oh, spare me,” said Hermione, rolling her eyes. “ _The Daily Prophet_ wasn’t the only newspaper that reported it.” 

“You asked for an explanation but apparently you don’t actually want one,” he said. “You can’t pick and choose what you’re going to hear.”

“Just admit that you’re a cheating, lying bastard,” said Hermione. “And this?” She waved a finger between them. “Whatever this thing is, it’s not going to ever happen again.”

 _There it is_ , she thought. Malfoy having a girlfriend was -- in the sort of twisted way that turned her stomach -- the perfect solution to the mess they were creating.

“This is a waste of time, Malfoy,” said Hermione. “We’ve talked, so now I’m going to leave.”

Malfoy shook his head in frustration, but when he turned to her again, there was a determined expression on his face. “I’m _telling_ you that I’m not dating Daphne, Granger.”

“Okay, you’re not,” said Hermione in a placating tone. “And I have a meeting with Cartwell I need to get to, so I’ll see you at the next meeting.”

Malfoy walked towards her in two short steps, closing the distance between them. He bent his head down and pinned her gaze to his. Hermione gulped audibly. 

“Why don’t you want to believe me, Granger? It might shock you, but I’ve never actually lied to you before.” 

“It’s not _that_ ,” insisted Hermione, but her words sounded weak to her own ears.

“It is. I’m being upfront with you, but you’re not hearing what I say,” said Malfoy, voice suddenly low. Hermione held in a breath as he took another step closer. “Why are you so closed off all of sudden? The other night we--”

“Why do you want me to believe you so badly?” interrupted Hermione, cutting him off before he could say something that she wouldn’t be able to ignore. _Don’t you see that I’m giving the both of us an out?_

It wasn’t that hard to believe him, but doing so would mean they couldn’t just tie a pretty bow on whatever happened. They’d have to face it, whatever it was, and the idea made Hermione completely terrified.

But as she took in the way he looked at her, with his head bent towards her and a spark in his eyes, Hermione thought that maybe he heard what she wasn’t saying.

He was just _choosing_ to ignore it. 

Instead of answering, Malfoy said, “Daphne has a problem and I’m helping her with it.”

“What problem would require you to date her, Malfoy?” said Hermione, sounding skeptical. 

“It’s a private matter,” said Malfoy. Hermione narrowed her eyes until he continued. “There are some things in pureblood culture that you don’t necessarily understand, Granger.” 

“Then explain them to me.”

Malfoy didn’t reply immediately. He straightened up, putting some distance between as he seemed to debate the matter over in his head. 

Hermione looked over his shoulder to the solarium’s door. He noticed the direction of her gaze, then rushed to say. “I’m only telling you this because I know you’ll keep it between us,” said Malfoy, then took a deep breath. “Daphne is gay and I’m pretending to date her so her parents get off her back,” he said quickly. 

“What?” gasped Hermione. “Why would her parents care about that?”

Malfoy sighed, “Pureblood culture, like I literally just said.”

“So you’re not just racists, you’re homophobes too? What a shocker,” said Hermione angrily. Malfoy shifted uncomfortably, and she begrudgingly added, “but you’re a good friend for helping her out.”

“You’re not going to go on a rant about how she should be brave and stand up for herself?”

“I’m not a lesbian with homophobic parents, Malfoy. What place do I have to say anything on the matter? It’d be incredibly insensitive of me to pretend I know what she’s going through.” 

“Yes, I guess,” he shrugged, then stepped closer to her. “Do you believe me now?”

“That’s not the point,” said Hermione, averting the gaze.

“What are you on about, Granger?” said Malfoy, his voice amused as he closed in on her. “That’s exactly the point, or do you think I just go around telling my friends’ secrets for no reason?”

“What are you doing?” asked Hermione, fighting her instinct to move away. Her mind was yelling for her to run as quick as she could.

Maybe it was the Gryffindor in her, or maybe it was a side of her that had been deeply buried, but Hermione couldn’t ignore how much she wanted to stay put and see what Malfoy would do. 

“Do you believe me now?” he repeated, the timber of his voice lower than usual. He took another step. “ _Hermione_?”

The way his voice curled when he said her name was enough to make Hermione take a step of her own. Malfoy was so close that she could smell him, and Hermione was trying but failing to keep her eyes pinned to his. 

It didn’t take too long for her to lose that fight -- she glanced down at his lips and her mind fogged. She wanted to push herself into her tiptoes and pull him closer. 

_This is going to be a problem_ , she decided, _It’s going to be a really big problem_.

“Yes, I do,” said Hermione, her voice sounding far away. “Why are you so close?”

Malfoy closed the gap between them and gently, almost tenderly, pressed their lips together. His hand reached behind her to pull her towards him. Hermione sighed into his mouth, her lashes fluttering. Malfoy tilted her chin back just _so_ \-- just enough to make it easier to slide his tongue against hers. 

She opened her mouth, drawing his robes into her fists, as if he was the only thing keeping her from floating away. Malfoy kissed Hermione long and hard, his tongue brushing against hers urgently, making her belly burn with desire. Her legs shook, and she pressed herself closer to him, their bodies touching through the fabric of their clothes. 

Malfoy kissed her as if trying to prove something -- to himself, to her, maybe to them both. Hermione’s mind was blank, her senses unable to process anything but the feel of him.

When Malfoy finally pulled away, as carefully as he had done the first time they kissed, Hermione looked at him openly, unable to hide her wonder. 

“That’s why I was so close,” said Malfoy. The raspiness of his voice sent shivers down her spine.

Hermione bit her lower lip, then pushed herself up, her body sliding against his as she pressed her lips against him once again. “Do you know what you’re doing, Malfoy?”

“Do you?” asked Malfoy, his arm circling around her so he could hold her firmly against him. It was so strange how right it felt, to be that close to him. 

“I have no idea,” admitted Hermione. 

Both of their bodies vibrated with the force of Malfoy’s chuckle. 

“Good,” he said. “That makes two of us.”

_ 

Hermione knocked twice on Cartwell’s door, catching herself in the reflection of the glass window in the opposite wall. Hermione’s cheeks were flushed, and her lips slightly swollen, but she didn’t think she looked too flustered. 

_Merlin, what am I doing?_ Hermione asked herself. She didn’t want to ruin the nice feeling running that lingered on her skin. 

“Hermione?” said Cartwell.

Hermione turned around and smiled. It had been over two weeks since the last time she had spoken to Cartwell. The healer was busy running the other programs in the MRC, so Hermione usually just left her reports on her desk so she could read them on her own time. 

“It’s been a while,” said Hermione, stepping through the open door. 

“Yes, yes,” said Cartwell, circling around to her desk as Hermione sat down in the armchair in front of it. “Things are always busy here. It’s good. I love having so much work to do, but sometimes I feel like things are just piling up.”

“Are you still having trouble getting new volunteers?” asked Hermione, frowning as she took in the large, dark circles under Cartwell’s eyes. Though her hair was put together and her plain dark robes didn’t have a wrinkle on them, she still looked exhausted. 

“I wouldn’t have trouble if the Ministry weren’t slowly draining our resources away. One thing is to serve unpaid hours, but we need to provide the bare minimum to the volunteers or they aren’t going to stay, and I can’t blame them for it,” ranted Cartwell. The words spilled out of her mouth like she’d kept them in for too long. “You did a great job at the St. Mungo’s ball, by the way. We got a large donation by a rich Auror. What was his name? Wait, let me find it. The Gringotts’ transfer receipt is somewhere in my drawer.”

“Oh, no need,” said Hermione, waving her hand. “I know who it is.”

“Well,” said Cartwell, stopping fiddling through her drawer to look up at Hermione. “Was he a friend of yours?”

“Not really,” said Hermione, her cheeks warming in discomfort. “I don’t know him well.”

“Ah,” Cartwell nodded knowingly. “An admirer, then.” 

“I guess,” shrugged Hermione. “You were saying the Ministry is cutting the MRC’s financing?”

“Slowly but surely,” said Cartwell with a sigh. “And they always have the perfect excuse. This time, they said that we can release our PTSD patients, since their recovery reports have been good. I told them that the treatment is long-term and it’s dangerous to cut it back so abruptly--”

“Mental illness has a high rate of recurrence, especially PTSD,” said Hermione.

“Exactly. The goal is to get everyone functional, but there’s bumps in every road. I don’t like signing them off the second they start showing signs of improvement. But with the Ministry it’s not like I have much choice.”

“It makes no sense for them to do that,” said Hermione, growing steadily aggravated. “What’s the point of the center if we’re just going to do the bare minimum? You know, Minister Shacklebolt and Hughman recently gave an interview about those recovery rates you just mentioned--”

“I saw it,” said Cartwell, sounding exasperated. “I talked to Hughman about fighting the cuts, but I don’t think he’s eager to make a stand. Don’t tell this to anyone, but--”

“Of course not,” reassured Hermione.

“Well, I just feel like the Ministry is using the MRC for publicity. I respect Hughman as a professional, but I can’t stand to watch him bow his head and nod when the Ministry makes our programs infeasible. It’s been bothering me for a while.”

“Why would Hughman accept the cuts?” asked Hermione. “You told me before that he cares deeply about the center.”

“I thought so too, but lately? I’m just not that sure,” said Cartwell, looking absent-minded. “I know that people have ambitions, but--”

“It’s disappointing,” said Hermione, her mind drifting to the mess her friendship with Harry had become. “I know all about it.”

“ _We_ are doing our job by trying, at least,” said Cartwell. Then her voice perked up.“Which brings me to the reason for our meeting. It’s been awhile since you took over the rehab program, so let’s talk about how that’s progressing.”

Hermione hesitated, feeling embarrassed that Malfoy’s face was the first thing that flashed to her mind. She smiled tightly at Cartwell, but was overtaken by images of the knowing twinkle in Malfoy’s eyes right before he kissed her--

And how he looked slightly dazzled when their lips parted. It gave her a certain type of rush, how he couldn’t hide his desire. 

“Hermione?”

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I was just deciding where to start.”

“You can start with your general impressions. I read your reports, of course, and they’re very detailed, but I’d like to hear from you personally.”

“I think it’d be good to begin by saying that you were right,” admitted Hermione. “I was way too aggressive at first. They were very responsive, but--”

“That’s more than what I got.”

“ _But_ they were defensive,” continued Hermione. “They directed their energy at fighting me. They were constantly angry at everything I said, and it didn’t help. I thought that if I gave them the hard, cold facts, it’d contradict their beliefs and they’d see things more clearly. But it didn’t go as I expected.”

Cartwell nodded knowingly, then stood up, walking to her teapot and mumbling a warming charm before filling two cups. “I’m not surprised. That’s what would work for you, so your instinct was to use it as a strategy. But not everybody is swayed by logic, especially when you’re talking about that sort of deeply-ingrained belief. It’s more of an emotional matter.”

“I see that now,” said Hermione. She took the cup Cartwell offered her, waiting for the healer to sit down again before continuing. “I read so much about Muggle social psychology before conducting the meeting, you know? Foucault says that power isn’t a structure, but something that moves everywhere and that everyone utilizes. So I thought that showing them the power behind each of their misconceived thoughts would make them empathize with its dangers. But maybe I went about it the wrong way.”

“I don’t know who that Foucault man is, but that train of thought isn’t exactly wrong,” said Cartwell. “But in this case, it’s less about power and more about fear.”

“I think that too,” said Hermione, thinking of Nott leaving Hogwarts to let Death Eaters into his dead father’s house, and Bulstrode gathering information because her parents told her it was the right thing to do. 

Hermione continued. “I changed strategies. I tried to understand them, to get them to talk about pureblood culture and what they’ve been taught. Today’s meeting I gave them headlines of war events. I tried to get them to remember what they were doing when each event happened, so they’d reconnect to those feelings of fear and humanize it.”

“Did it work?” said Cartwell, looking interested. 

“I think so,” said Hermione. “I think I’ve been getting through Nott for a while now. He’s a talker, and he’s not shy about sharing what he thinks. Malfoy is like that too, but he’s more argumentative, which is not a bad thing.”

“He’s very--” hesitated Cartwell, considering her words. “Defensive, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” said Hermione. _But he’s getting better_ , she thought. “Parkinson is angry all the time. I think part of it is that she doesn’t like me, but today I got to see another side of her. I don't know what went down personally, but her family was deeply affected by the war. You’d think that would make her resent pureblood politics and culture, but she’s holding tightly to them instead.”

“You’re getting more out of her than I did,” said Cartwell. “Maybe it’s good that she doesn’t like you. She’s opening up because she wants to fight you. I remember her being very _apathetic_ when I conducted the meetings.”

“I remember,” said Hermione. “There’s Bulstrode as well. She’s a straight-up follower. Even if I talk her through her prejudices, her friends’ and family’s opinions will always hold more weight.”

“You might get through her eventually,” said Cartwell, trying to sound encouraging. “How about Rookwood?”

Hermione hesitated. She knew it was way past time to talk to Cartwell about it -- there was no point in procrastinating it any longer. Rookwood’s behavior in that day’s meeting had shown her he was already convinced there would be no repercussions to his actions.

She still felt apprehensive. Hermione had a good relationship with Cartwell, one that she wasn’t looking forward to souring. The Rookwood debacle hadn’t been the first thing she had kept from her, and when Hermione’s mind drifted to Malfoy, she also knew that it wouldn’t be the last. 

“Rookwood--” started Hermione, trying to figure the best way to put it. “He can be very aggressive. To be honest with you, Edina, I don’t know how he isn’t in Azkaban.” 

“That’s a very serious statement, Hermione,” said Cartwell, looking concerned. “He didn’t talk a lot when I worked with them. I had one-on-one’s with him that didn’t amount to much, but he was always perfectly polite.”

“Because you’re a pureblood,” said Hermione. Her voice dropped an octave, the words almost dragging themselves out of her mouth. “I represent everything that he despises. And if he acts like he does towards me, a muggleborn in an authority position, I’m certain he’d act much worse towards other muggleborns.”

“Did he do something?”

Hermione tapped her foot against the carpet, wringing her hands. “He got aggressive in a meeting,” she said. She averted her gaze, focusing on the teacup in front of her. “It wasn’t physical, so it was worse, in a way. He said a lot of things. About--” She gulped. “About how the Death Eaters used to torture muggle-borns, about how they’d love to do it to me. I can’t--”

Hermione stopped, closing her eyes. When she opened them, Cartwell was staring at her with shock plastered on her face. She had paled, and her mouth was agape. 

“There was more, but you get the gist of it,” said Hermione. “I got a panic attack, so I ended the meeting early. Since then I’ve continued the meetings normally.” 

Cartwell pressed a hand over her mouth. She sat in silence for a few seconds; Hermione thought she looked like she was trying to gather her thoughts. “Hermione,” she finally muttered. “If I knew that would happen, I would’ve never allowed him to be in that room with you. Like I said, when I worked with him, he behaved very differently.”

“I know, and I don’t blame you,” said Hermione, feeling guilty when she saw the genuine concern on Cartwell’s face. “And we knew it was a possibility, considering his background. I can usually handle it, I don’t know why he got to me--”

“What he did was completely barbaric,” said Cartwell in a firm voice. “I don’t want to hear you blame yourself for reacting, Hermione. Any person would.”

“I know but--” started Hermione. She sighed. “This actually happened over three weeks ago,” she said. She watched Cartwell’s face twist in confusion. “I didn’t tell you right away because I was still processing things, but I should’ve told you once I felt better, and I didn’t.” 

“Okay,” said Cartwell, her lips flattening. “Why didn’t you?”

“I don’t know,” said Hermione, shame clinging to her. “Part of me didn’t want to remember it because I was ashamed that I let it happen, and then time had passed and it felt like it was still getting bigger in my head.”

“Hermione,” sighed Cartwell. “I understand that was a traumatic situation, and I respect you for admitting how you felt. But--”

“Before you say anything, there’s something else I need to tell you,” said Hermione in a rush, eager to let out as much as possible. “We've been having the meetings at the solarium on the second floor. For a month now. It wasn’t planned, it’s just that the other room seemed so stifling, almost like a classroom, and then I thought of the solarium and we just went there. They seem to like it better--”

“And you didn’t tell me?” interrupted Cartwell, eyebrows lifting high. “Hermione, you should’ve informed me immediately.”

“I didn’t think you’d mind,” started Hermione. She didn’t want to make excuses. _This isn’t who I am_ , she thought. “And then I procrastinated on telling you just like I did with the Rookwood situation. I was wrong, and I’m sorry.”

Cartwell took a sip of her tea, studying Hermione over the rim of her cup. When she set the cup down on the desk, there was disappointment evident in her expression. 

“I’m going to have to tell Hughman about both things,” said Cartwell. “As we agreed before, I’m not going to tell him about you taking over the meetings. But I’m sure you understand why I have to tell him about a member threatening a mind healer and us moving classes to the solarium, don’t you?” 

Hermione was taken aback at her patronizing tone. Cartwell had never talked to her like that before. 

“Of course I do.”

“Great,” said Cartwell. “I don’t want weekly reports from you anymore, Hermione. I want them after every meeting you hold. And we’re going to meet in person every other week. I’d do it weekly, but I really don’t have the time to spare.”

“I understand,” she said, looking down.

“The change in locations is very inconsequential, Hermione, I honestly can’t process why you’d choose to hide that from me,” said Cartwell firmly. Hermione felt like she was being chastised by McGonagall. “I have to file it in the system, of course, but I wouldn’t have minded. But about Rookwood, I understand where you’re coming from, but you need to come to me _immediately_ if something like that happens again.”

“I’m sorry, I promise I’ll let you know immediately,” said Hermione, sounding genuinely sincere. The look on Cartwell’s face softened slightly. 

“Handing the program over to you was a vote of confidence, I can and will take it over again if I feel like I can’t trust you, Hermione,” said Cartwell. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I do,” nodded Hermione. She was flushed with shame. “I’m truly sorry.”

“Now, the protocol about reporting something like that isn’t very clear. I’ll talk it over with Hughman, and I’m guessing he will contact the Wizengamot about it, since they’re the ones in charge of probation. I don't know if he’ll do it directly or through a liaison at the DMLE, but I’m going to speed things up so we can get a quick answer about the repercussions over Rookwood’s place in the program. I’ll have to think of an excuse to give Hughman about why I didn’t report this when it happened--”

“Tell him I begged you not to,” Hermione said quickly. “It’s mostly the truth, anyway. It was my decision.”

“He might call you up to his office to talk about it.”

“That makes sense,” said Hermione, even if she couldn’t picture Hughman scolding her. 

“Okay, then that’s all, Hermione,” said Cartwell. “Remember what I told you, okay?”

“Of course,” nodded Hermione. She stood up slowly, then gathered her things. Before she turned towards the door, she faced the healer again. “I’m really sorry.”

Cartwell gave her a flat smile, then grabbed one of the parchments on top of her desk and turned around in her chair as she began to read it. 

Hermione took it as the dismissal it was, so she headed to the door.

It wasn’t until she was halfway down the corridor that what Cartwell said sank in. If Hughman notified the DMLE, that meant Harry would know about Hermione's work in the program. Her stomach lurched. _I need to be the one to tell him_ , thought Hermione, approaching the MRC’s Floo channel. 

She knew with absolute certainty that his reaction wouldn’t be pleasant, but it would be worse if he found out through a third party. 

As she stepped into their living room, Hermione immediately checked the clock. Harry wouldn’t be home for another two hours. She decided to talk to him as soon as he arrived -- waiting too long would make her lose her nerve. 

Hermione absentmindedly went through her routine of feeding Crookshanks, showering the stress of her workday away and preparing a quick meal for supper. She didn’t eat much of her meatloaf; her nervousness made her nauseous enough to kill her appetite. 

After cleaning the dishes, she settled in the living room’s couch, Malfoy’s book in her hand. She sat facing the fireplace, bracing herself for Harry’s arrival. She was sick of having this uncertainty hanging over them -- lying to him made her chest feel like it was filled with a sack of pebbles. By ten p.m, he still wasn’t home. She didn’t worry too much about it, as he had been staying later and later at the office since he took over as Head of Department. 

She finished Malfoy’s book, feeling an urge to grab a parchment and write to him about her thoughts. _I’m going to need to get an owl if I want to communicate with him easily_ , thought Hermione, then she shook the idea away. _I’m not going to get an owl just so I can talk to Malfoy, that’s daft._

Hermione chuckled under her breath as she imagined buying the saddest looking animal available and his revulsion when he saw it.

By the time the clock chirped that it was midnight, Hermione felt her eyes growing heavier. She dragged her legs up on the couch and mumbled _accio_ to one of her pillows, pushing it against the arm of the couch and resting her head on it as she scribbled down her main points of contention about Malfoy's book. She’d owl it to him the next morning. 

She fell asleep mulling over the rise in broom consumerism in Europe during the early 80’s and the easier way to goad Malfoy into arguing with her about it.

_

Hermione jumped awake when she heard Crookshanks hissing. She sighed, massaging her eyes with her fingers to clear away the traces of sleep. She noticed that a fluffy blanket had been haphazardly thrown over her. _Harry’s home, then_ , she concluded, then glanced at the clock. 

It was already past eight in the morning. Hermione heard her back crack when she stood up. _I need to stop sleeping in uncomfortable places_ , she thought, her bones protesting in pain. 

Crookshanks was still trying to get her attention, so Hermione set a Silencing charm in the living room and strutted towards the cans of cat food she kept in the cabinets. She scraped a healthy amount into his bowl, and patted his head when he rubbed his paw against her leg in gratitude. 

She left it him purring contentedly and tip-toed towards Harry’s room, pressing an ear to the door to listen for any signs of movement. When she heard a low snore, Hermione sighed and walked to her room. He wouldn’t be awake for another hour.

Hermione made quick work of showering, brushing her teeth, and picking clothes for the day. She didn’t need to be at the MRC, but she was eager to owl Malfoy her notes. Without thinking much of it, she grabbed her copy of _The Fire Next Time_ by James Baldwin and quickly wrapped it with the stray pieces of parchment. 

She took the package with her to the living room, intending to eat something before heading to Diagon Alley. Hermione was finishing putting together a sandwich when an owl tapped on the kitchen window. She opened it and grabbed _The Daily Prophet’s_ issue from the owl’s beak, tossing it a treat. 

Before she started reading it, Hermione turned on the stove and set the water for her coffee to boil. Once she was done, she rested her back against a countertop and unfolded the paper with her usual trepidation. When she started reading the headline, her eyes widened as she took in the words. 

_The Wedding of the Ages!_

_By Padma Patil_

_Love is in the air, and you heard it here first._

_Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley have officially announced their betrothal._

_For years, this couple has been making us all envious of their written-in-the-stars love story. We all know the story: Weasley pined after Potter as soon as she saw his handsome scarred forehead for the first time, and while he was a bit slow on the uptake, he eventually realized the woman of his dreams had been by his side all along. They’re certainly living the romance most of us have only read in books._

_A decade later, the recently-appointed Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (DMLE) and the Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies are the definition of a power-couple. In an exclusive interview for_ The Daily Prophet _, Potter’s eyes dazzled as he declared that, “This is going to be the most important moment of my life. I’m ecstatic to start on this journey with the woman I love and who I want to build a family with.”_

_The bride had loving words to share as well, gushing that “I’ve been dreaming of this since I was a kid. It’s the definition of a dream come true. Harry is a man who I, and the entire Wizarding World, trust deeply, and I know this will be a celebrated moment by all.”_

_We can’t wait to see the magnificent event they’re going to throw next winter._

Hermione set the newspaper carefully on the countertop, smoothing the wrinkles she had left by squeezing it too tightly between her fingers. She turned off the stove, dumped the water down the drain, and carefully placed her uneaten sandwich inside the fridge.

In quick steps, Hermione grabbed Malfoy’s package from the dinner table. She stomped her away towards the fireplace, refusing to look in the direction of Harry’s room. 

When she arrived at Diagon Alley, she marched down the busy streets with the package squeezed tightly to her chest. 

By the time Hermione stood watching the owl fly away with her gift, she had shut down the buzzing in her mind, but the feeling of betrayal persisted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello lovely humans. 
> 
> I'm so overwhelmed by the response I got the last chapter. Thank you so much! 
> 
> We're officially in a different point of the story. We've got a relationship to solidify, friendships to navigate, and a subplot to unveil :) I'm so excited for you guys to read everything that is coming from this point forward. Hearing your thoughts is always motivating and comforting to me, so let me know what you think of this one! I'll be back with a new chapter soon <3


	16. A Niche For a Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has: raging displays of misogyny, my favorite theo and hermione interaction so far, and our couple getting all kinds of flirty. I hope you enjoy :) beta-ed by the fantastic @jeparlepasfrancais

"He could build a city. Has a certain capacity. **_There’s a niche in his chest where a heart would fit perfectly_ ** and he thinks if he could just maneuver one into place— **well then, game over**." Road Music, Richard Siken

* * *

As she walked down the MRC’s corridors, Hermione vibrated with apprehension. She’d spent the morning locked inside her bedroom pouring over the group’s assignments and doing her best to avoid any interaction with Harry. 

Her plan to spend the day buried under a thick stack of parchments had come undone when the Ministry owl pecked at her window, carrying an official looking letter. Cartwell’s words had been vague, simply requesting Hermione’s presence at a meeting that afternoon. The letter’s somber tone had sent Hermione’s mind into overdrive, and she became useless for the rest of the morning, too busy coming up with improbable scenarios. 

She was still anxious when she arrived at Cartwell’s office. Hermione rubbed her sweaty palms against her jeans, stealing a couple of seconds to compose herself. She forcibly brushed away her treacherous thoughts, then knocked on the door twice. 

Cartwell bellowed a “Come on in,” and Hermione pushed the door open. She immediately spotted the healer sitting stiffly behind her desk, her elbows resting on the table and hands crossed. Across from her, Hughman sat in a deep black leather chair, wearing his usual over-the-top smile. 

“Hello,” greeted Hermione, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her. 

“Miss Granger, hello.” Hughman’s loud voice reverberated and broke through the stifling silence of the room. “It’s been a while since we last talked.”

“Yes,” said Hermione, nodding hesitantly. The alarming differences in her superiors’ expressions were twisting her mind up in confusion: she didn’t know whether to worry or to relax. 

“Please sit,” commanded Hughman, He stood up quickly and pulled out the second chair for Hermione, who gingerly stepped forward and sat in the chair. He patted her on the shoulder, and she forced a smile of gratitude. She gave a sidelong glance towards Cartwell, who was still looking bleak. 

“Hi, Hermione,” said Cartwell finally. “I apologize for asking you to come here with such short notice--”

“Miss Granger doesn’t mind, of course,” interrupted Hughman, still smiling. Cartwell’s eyes briefly darkened with frustration, but she pushed it away quickly. Hermione didn’t think Hughman would’ve noticed either way. 

“I don’t,” said Hermione. “But I’m curious. I know this is probably about Rookwood.”

“Yes,” said Cartwell, exhaling a sharp breath. “Hermione--”

“We can talk about that in a bit,” said Hughman. He didn’t look in the healer’s direction as he waved his hand in a dismissive motion, still leaning towards Hermione. “Miss Granger, I haven't gotten the chance to talk to you since St. Mungo’s anniversary ball. I spied you on the dance floor, too busy wooing the crowd to notice little old me. You did an excellent job, of course, as I knew you would.”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed and she shifted in the chair in discomfort. She turned towards Cartwell, who was watching them with a blank expression -- only her slightly clenched jaw betrayed her true emotions. 

“Thank you, I didn't do much, really,” said Hermione. “I know Cartwell wants to--”

“Now, don’t be humble,” said Hughman, chuckling as he wagged his index finger at Hermione, like she had just told the world’s funniest joke. “Of course you exceeded all expectations. I’m sure Edina here told you about the donation we received.”

“I did--” started Cartwell, but Hughman continued talking over her.

“We don’t receive fifty-thousand-galleon donations every day, you know,” he said with a wink. “You must’ve made quite the impression.” 

Hermione almost grimaced, not fully absorbing his words. When they finally sank in, she gasped.

“Fifty thousand galleons?” she said, leaning forward in her chair. “That’s insane.”

“For an initiative that a war hero supports? Our donor doesn’t think so, of course,” said Hughman. “You didn’t tell her about this, Edina?” 

“I didn’t disclose the full amount, no,” said Cartwell, her voice uncharacteristically low. “I didn’t think Hermione would be interested in the full details of the donation.”

“Well, I don’t--” started Hermione.

“It’s important that Miss Granger knows how much she’s appreciated here, of course.” interrupted Hughman. He gave her a conspiratorial grin.

 _Not appreciated enough to be able to finish a sentence_ , thought Hermione, her face contorted into a scowl. From the way Hughman continued to beam at her, she was certain that it didn’t register.

“She is,” said Cartwell. “Which is why I think we should discuss the matter at hand, Director? There’s no need to keep Hermione waiting.”

“Of course, of course, I think that’d be wise,” said Hughman. He paused and glanced at both women, then continued, as if he had just thought of it. “Then we shall begin, Edina, let’s not keep Miss Granger waiting, of course.” He furrowed his brow and pressed his forefingers together as if deep in thought.

Hermione almost rolled her eyes.

“Right,” muttered Cartwell. She turned towards Hermione. “Like I told you, Hermione, I talked to the Director about our predicament with Rookwood. We had to determine the appropriate channel to report the incident, as a situation like that has never happened in the program before--”

“Of course, the Ministry was completely prepared to handle the situation,” said Hughman. “I contacted one of our liaisons at the DMLE and reported the incident just as Edina here informed me. I must say that I’m very sorry that something like that happened to you, Miss Granger.”

“That’s okay,” said Hermione. “What did the DMLE say?”

“They sent it over to the Wizengamot. Of course, I indicated that they should give this case top priority,” said Hughman, voice trailing off as he gave Hermione an expectant look.

Hermione looked briefly at Cartwell, who was staring at her hands. “And then?” she urged. 

“Well, of course they gave it priority, which is why we got a response so quickly,” he said proudly. “Augustus Rookwood will be fined two thousand galleons for disruptive behavior. He already received a letter notifying him of the adjudication and punishment, so don’t worry, you won’t have to break the news.”

Hermione’s breath faltered as she felt the information sink in. Her lips parted in disbelief. Her eyes flickered between Hughman and Cartwell repeatedly as she waited for them to continue.

When they didn’t say anything, she turned to Hughman, “Sir?”

“Yes, Miss Granger?”

“What else did they say?” she asked. 

“What do you mean?” frowned Hughman. “They expressed regret at the incident, of course, but that goes without saying. I speak for the entire Ministry when I say that we cannot condone that type of behavior.”

“But his punishment is a fine? That’s barely a slap on the wrist,” said Hermione, her voice rising an octave. “Rookwood is the heir to a large fortune, it’s not like two thousand galleons is going to empty his pocket. And even if it did--”

“Miss Granger,” said Hughman, sounding appalled. “It’s not about the amount, but the significance of the punishment.”

“What significance?” asked Hermione. “The only message this sends is that he can pay his way out of threatening a Ministry employee. I honestly don’t think this is the right decision.”

“Oh, no, you’re taking it the wrong way,” said Hughman in a patronizing tone. He looked in Cartwell’s direction for support, but she immediately forced a blank expression on her face. “Monetary compensation is a completely appropriate punishment to show those criminals the consequences of their actions. Don’t you have that sort of thing in the Muggle world?”

“Yes, for civil liability, but not when someone commits a crime--”

“Of course, then you understand,” said Hughman. “The Wizengamot acts in our best interests, Miss Granger, as does the Ministry as a whole. You shouldn’t worry too much about it, I’m sure that now everything will settle.”

“Director Hughman--”

Hermione’s words got cut off by Hughman standing up from his chair. She was too baffled to react -- she watched with wide eyes as he looked from her to Cartwell, lips curled into a smile that exuded condescension. 

“If that’s all, I must go,” he started, tugging at his tie. “It was good catching up with you, as always, Miss Granger. Edina, we will surely talk later.”

“Director--”

“Keep up the good work,” he exclaimed, pumping up a fist. Before Hermione could try to get his attention, he swiftly made his escape.

Hermione stared at the closed door for several seconds, turning around only when Cartwell cleared her throat. 

“What was that?” 

“I wish I knew,” sighed Cartwell, rubbing her temples with her thumb and forefinger. “I’m really sorry, Hermione. I was in shock when I first read their letter, and Hughman insisted on asking to meet with you right away. He thought you’d be happy with the news.”

“That’s insane,” said Hermione, grabbing each arm of the chair and squeezing the leather between her fingers. “It’s ridiculous, and it makes no sense as a probationary measure. I wasn’t expecting them to throw him out of the program permanently, but they could’ve at least given him a suspension, or added extra time to his sentence. Honestly, I could come up with a huge list of options that would make more sense than this.”

“I know,” said Cartwell. “But that’s how the system works, Hermione. I don’t like it either, and I’ll be the first to fight this with you, if you truly want to, but--”

“You don’t think it’s worth it,” said Hermione flatly.

“Of course it’s worth it,” said Cartwell, giving her a look. “But I think that in this case we’ve already found the best approach available. Keep working with Rookwood in the meetings, Hermione, that’s what we have the power to do.”

“I wonder what Hughman even told them,” said Hermione. “Do you have access to a copy of the report he sent them?”

“I don’t. I told you there wasn’t any defined protocol, so I took the situation to him, and then he decided the best way to handle it. I offered to contact the DMLE myself, but he was firmly against it.”

“This situation is just so odd,” said Hermione, squeezing the chair tightly enough to leave dents. Her nostrils flared. “And he just ran out of the door.”

“I’m sorry, Hermione.”

“It’s not your fault.” They looked at each other for a second, wearing twin expressions of dismay. Hermione’s stomach turned at the idea of letting the matter go, but as she registered the exhaustion radiating from Cartwell, she couldn’t bring herself to push. “Do you think it’d be helpful if I went to the DMLE myself? I could request a Wizengamot hearing.”

“You could,” said Cartwell. She tried to sound neutral, but Hermione caught a hint of skepticism in her voice. “But it might be counterproductive. A situation like this would be leaked to media outlets in a heartbeat, and I’d imagine we’d have to press pause on the program while they sort out a hearing. If you truly feel like it’s the best approach, I’ll support you, but I’d give it more thought before taking any step.”

“I see,” said Hermione, feeling impotent. “I’m just frustrated, I’m sorry. I must sound insane right now.”

“You don’t, you’re feeling powerless, and that’s completely natural.” Cartwell paused, seeming to consider something. “Do you want me to take over the meetings for a while? It’s understandable if you’re not comfortable being in the same room as him.”

Hermione shook her head. “I can handle him. I guess I just thought there would be more to it.”

She didn’t wait for Cartwell to respond before standing up, yearning to be alone with her thoughts. 

“Okay, but if you change your mind, at any given time, just let me know. I mean it,” said Cartwell.

Hermione gave her a weak smile. “Thank you, I appreciate it.”

“I’ll see you soon, Hermione.”

She gathered her belongings and they exchanged goodbyes. 

Hermione made her way towards the fireplaces with half a mind to march straight into Hughman’s office, but Cartwell’s words were echoing in her ears. 

If their relationship wasn’t in such a limbo, she would Floo to Harry’s office and talk the problem out with him -- she’d get a better understanding of the Ministry and how she could work the situation in her favor.

As it stood, Hermione dragged herself home, feeling like she was stepping into a maze with no idea how to find her way out. 

_

Hermione only noticed the envelope when she returned to the living room after her bath. She had spent over half an hour soaking in warm water, her muscles slowly unwinding, turning loose and relaxed by the time she got up to get dressed. Her name was scribbled across the envelope in Ginny’s familiar handwriting. Hermione picked it up and quickly read the note. 

She pondered the invitation as she went about her day. Having dinner with Ginny could be fun, but their relationship felt uncertain: she hadn’t seen Ginny since the anniversary of George’s death. Harry’s words still rang in her ears, and Hermione wondered if meeting Ginny by herself would make things more even awkward. _But she wouldn’t have invited you if she was cross_ , thought Hermione.

On top of that, Hermione was still preoccupied with work, stuck in a thought loop of trying to come up with just one infallible solution that Hughman wouldn’t be able to deny, then feeling frustrated when no alternative seemed to fit the bill. 

Hermione forced herself to finish reading the last of the group’s assignments, then cleaned Crookshanks’ litter box and wiped down the bathroom counters -- foolish attempts at silencing her mind for more than a couple of minutes. 

When Hermione truly let herself _want_ \-- when she stopped censoring her feelings and let her mind run unfiltered -- she felt herself yearning to spend the day distracting herself in Malfoy’s company. _Laughing, talking, simply being_.

The thought filled her with the sort of giddy feeling that she remembered in muffled giggles and almost inaudible whispers shared late at night in the Gryffindor dorms, when all they needed to worry about was if the person they liked, liked them back. 

She felt fifteen again, or younger. She closed her eyes and let the feeling bubble up in her chest, picturing his face in her head. Blonde hair, flat grey eyes, tapered chin. He smirked at her, beckoning with his finger. _Don’t you wish I liked you back?_

The alarming veracity of her longing was enough to make her rush to the fireplace and stick her head in, ready to accept Ginny’s invitation. 

_

It was half past nine when Hermione walked into the pub. It was buzzing with more activity than she would’ve expected on a Thursday night. 

Groups of friends reunited in every corner, shouting to be heard over the music being played. The bar was packed, full of people jostling each other to get the bartender’s attention. As she scanned the crowd, Hermione narrowly dodged a levitated glass of firewhiskey, grimacing when the liquid ended up splashed all over the floor and her shoes. 

Hermione muttered a cleaning charm under her breath and stepped further into the room, careful to not bump into any tables. She sighed in relief when she finally spotted red hair. Ginny was sitting in a corner booth, nursing a half-empty pint of butterbeer. 

“Hi,” said Hermione, sliding into the opposite booth. “I’m not late, am I?”

“No, no,” answered Ginny, cleaning her mouth with the back of her hand. “I just got here, but it’s kind of cold out, so I ordered a butterbeer to warm me up. Do you want one?”

Hermione chuckled as she inclined her head towards the chaos around the room. “I’m kind of scared that I’ll get drenched in alcohol. People are especially rowdy tonight.”

Ginny’s eyes widened in realization, “Oh, I forgot you don’t keep up with Quidditch. There was a Falmouth Falcons versus Chudley Cannons match earlier this evening. Ron was sulking around the house afterwards, it was pathetic.”

The mention of Ron was enough to get Hermione to slide out of the booth, “Oh, everything makes sense now. I’m going to get a butterbeer then. I’m guessing this place doesn’t have an extensive menu, but do you want me to get us something to eat?”

“Yeah, yeah,” nodded Ginny. “Get us some fish and chips, it’s not like they can screw that up.”

“Alright,” said Hermione. She opened her purse and grabbed a handful of sickles. “It might take me awhile, though.”

“Use your war hero clout, Hermione, it’ll get you served in no time.”

Hermione only rolled her eyes in response, then turned to walk towards the bar. She elbowed her way through the clusters of people, noticing for the first time that many were wearing team jerseys. _Quidditch_ , she muttered to herself. 

At the bar, Hermione stood patiently behind a group of men, standing on her tiptoes so she could look over their shoulders and catch a glimpse of the bartender. When she only managed to get a view of the patrons standing in front of them, she figured she was in for a long wait. She could only hope that Ginny would be patient. 

“What do we have here?” 

Hermione turned her head to find the tall figure of Theo Nott. As usual, he looked like he couldn’t be arsed to put on an effort -- his clothes were wrinkled and strands of his brown hair spiked out everywhere. He was grinning at her, a glint of playfulness in his eyes. 

She felt a headache coming. 

“Hello, Nott.” Hermione turned to face forward again. 

“I think my brain is in serious danger of combusting. I was sure you only existed within the limits of the MRC, like one of the Hogwarts ghosts. Seeing you outside is seriously blowing my mind,” said Nott in a loud voice. Hermione nervously looked around the room to see if they were attracting attention. “Seriously, it’s like I ran into McGonagall at Florean Fortescue’s, or holding hands with Snape, or something equally disturbing.” 

“Good to know that living my life is somehow disturbing to you, Nott,” snapped Hermione. “Don’t you have anything better to do than embarrass me in public?” 

“On the contrary,” he said, just as loudly. He winked at her. “Since when do you like quidditch, Granger?”

“I don’t,” answered Hermione, almost sighing in relief when the line moved and she managed to walk up to the bar. She didn’t spare Nott a glance, but she could hear him following beside her.

“Then why are you here?”

“I can go anywhere I want, Nott,” said Hermione, giving him a scowl. 

“No need to get defensive,” said Nott, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m just asking. When I think about how you spend your Thursday evenings, I usually picture you with your nose buried in a stack of obscure books while plotting the annihilation of evil wizarding corporations.”

Hermione frowned, unsure if she should be flattered or insulted. “You might spend just too much time thinking about me, Nott.”

“I can’t help it,” he shrugged. Hermione gave him a long stare, but didn’t detect any malice in his voice. _He’s an odd duck_ , she thought. “Oh, look, it’s your turn.”

Hermione turned back to the bar, smiling in greeting when the bartender finally walked up to her. She quickly put on her order and paid, then rested her elbows on top of the bar to wait. 

“Are you here on a date?”

“Nott, I don’t know where you got the impression that you are privy to information about my personal life, but to clear up any confusion, you are most certainly _not_.” 

“I thought we _bonded_ ,” squeaked Theo, putting on an expression of offense. “We talked about Dark Magic. I begged a random muggleborn to have a drink with me, just for you.”

“That must have been such a sacrifice,” said Hermione, nodding gratefully at the bartender, who had just returned with her drinks and food. “Have a good evening, Nott.”

Hermione lifted her wand to levitate all the items to the booth, taking extra care to raise them high above everyone’s heads. 

She had only taken a couple of steps when Nott yelled after her. 

“Draco will love knowing you’re here!”

She faltered -- it was only her tight hold on her wand that kept the items from tumbling into the floor. Hermione shot him a look over her shoulder, scowling she saw him cackle. He winked at her and turned around to put on his order. She still looked ruffled when she finally reached the booth.

“What happened?” 

“Oh, nothing. I just spilled a bit of the drinks,” said Hermione. She handed Ginny one of the pints of butterbeer and took a big sip of her own, then pushed the tray of food so it was evenly placed between them. “So, congratulations on the engagement.”

“Thank you so much,” said Ginny, a wide smile lighting up her face. Hermione couldn’t help but smile back. “I’m so excited.”

“How did he propose?” asked Hermione, dipping one of her chips in sauce before tossing it into her mouth. She let her gaze wander as Ginny rambled, but she didn’t spot Malfoy’s platinum-blond hair anywhere. “That’s so exciting.”

“Wait, didn’t Harry tell you any of this?” frowned Ginny. Hermione hesitated. 

“We haven’t had the opportunity to talk about it yet,” said Hermione, forcing a neutral tone. “It’s not a big deal.”

“You live together,” said Ginny, “and our engagement is a very big deal. That makes no sense.”

“We’ve both been pretty busy.”

She must have seen something in her eyes, because pity was the best word for Ginny’s expression. Hermione felt a jolt of bitterness when Ginny patted her hand. 

“I’m sure he’s going to talk to you about it eventually.” 

Hermione nodded and lifted her glass to her mouth, hiding her face behind the large mug of butterbeer. She took a large gulp before setting the mug back on the table.

“So, was your mother ecstatic?” asked Hermione, urgent to change the subject. 

“She was over the moon, it was exactly the news she needed after--” Ginny cleared her throat. “You know what.” 

“I’m really happy for you guys, Ginny.”

And she _was_ , despite the vivid memory of the conversation she’d had with Harry about it. Hermione couldn’t help but wonder when Harry had come to terms with letting the Ministry dictate his life.

“I know,” said Ginny, nodding enthusiastically. “It’s why I didn’t want to wait to ask you.”

“Ask me what?” said Hermione with confusion. 

“Would you be my maid of honor?”

With her eyebrows raised in surprise, Hermione watched Ginny beam at her, hands squeezed together while she bounced up and down in her seat. Hermione’s first instinct was to ask her _why_ , but she bit her tongue before the question could roll out of her mouth. _I’m not going to be good at this_ , thought Hermione, _and with the way things are with Harry--_

But Ginny was looking at her expectantly, vibrating with joy -- it softened her features and brightened her face. Hermione was certain that anyone who looked at her right then would be affected by the happiness shining out of her.

“Oh, Ginny,” Hermione breathed out, “of course, I mean, I’d be honored to.”

“Yay!” she squealed, then stood up, leaning over the table to pull Hermione into a hug. “It’ll be the best, you’ll see. It’s going to be the wedding of the ages.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Hermione, voice muffled as she tried to talk past a mouthful of Ginny’s hair. She rubbed her back softly.

Hermione cleared her throat, but Ginny continued rocking them from side to side, squeezing Hermione tightly and making it impossible for her to move away. Ginny was squealing excited words that she didn’t quite catch. 

Her breath faltered when she finally spotted Malfoy across the room. When they made eye contact, Malfoy raised an eyebrow and offered her a smirk. 

“Ginny, it’s getting hard to breathe here.”

“Okay, I’m letting you go,” she said. She pulled away and sagged into the booth. Hermione sat down more slowly, her heart beating frantically inside her chest. “What are you looking at?” asked Ginny, turning around to follow Hermione’s gaze.

“Nothing,” said Hermione, but Ginny had already noticed Malfoy.

“Ugh,” she grunted, turning to Hermione with a scowl. “That Death Eater scum is everywhere these days. I can’t stand seeing him walking around like it’s perfectly okay for him to do so.”

The words slipped out of Hermione’s mouth before she was fully aware of them. “But it kind of is. I mean, he wasn’t sentenced to Azkaban. He’s not in house arrest, so it _is_ perfectly okay for him to be anywhere he pleases.”

“What?” she gaped. “Are you seriously defending him?”

“I’m not,” said Hermione, shaking her head. She cursed herself for opening her mouth, but once she started, she couldn’t help but continue. “I’m just saying. Besides, he was seventeen when everything happened, a lot has happened since then. Maybe he’s changed, who knows?”

 _Do I really believe that?_ she asked herself, searching for Malfoy again. He wasn’t looking at her any more. Instead, he bent his head down so Pansy could whisper something in his ear. Hermione felt a stab of discomfort hit her as she watched them. She gripped the edge of the table tightly, unable to tear her eyes away from them. 

As if sensing her gaze, Malfoy looked in her direction again. It didn’t take him long to take in her expression, and he quickly moved until there was a bigger amount of space between him and Pansy. He smirked at Hermione with satisfaction, and she both wanted to throttle him and kiss the smugness off his face.

She finally teared her eyes away, both startled by her jealousy and the giddy state he left her in -- it was the strangest realization to have, when the distance between them was overflowing with history infinitely larger than them. 

Hermione didn’t think she’d feel that way, knowing what she knew about him, if she didn’t believe there was something more beneath all the gruff and anger he presented the world. 

“Whatever,” said Ginny, eager to return to the more interesting subject. “Let me tell you what I’m thinking. The wedding will take place next winter, and there’s just so much to plan. I don’t even know where to begin. But I do want a garden full of lilies.”

_

“I’m going to get better tickets for the next match,” said Theo, twisting the charmed dart between his fingers before flicking it at the dartboard. The dart looped in the air, shooting out red sparks. They all held their breath as it got closer and closer, and exhaled sharply when the dart exploded into red smoke just an inch before it reached the target. Theo groaned. “Ah, fuck, I hate this game.”

“It’s all about luck,” said Draco, crossing his arms and leaning back into the wall. Daphne jutted her chin at Theo in challenge and stepped up to take her turn. “And why do you want better tickets? You don’t even like quidditch,” he asked Theo.

“It’s about the experience, not the game.”

“Except it’s actually not,” huffed Draco. He chuckled when Daphne’s dart hit just the edge of the outer bullseye, shooting out green confetti. The score above the dartboard ringed as it added points under Daphne and Draco’s name, and Theo sputtered furiously.

“You both cursed this game, I bloody know it,” he said accusingly.

“Don’t be a sore loser,” said Daphne, returning to her seat with a proud smile. Pansy rolled her eyes and stood up, digging a sharp elbow in Theo’s ribs. 

“Why are you attacking me?” he exclaimed.

“Because you’re making us lose,” hissed Pansy. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she carefully threw the dart. The dart didn’t even loop before bursting into red smoke, speckles of the powder falling all over her face and clothes. “For Salazar’s sake,” she said, digging her hands into her hips.

“You see it now?” said Theo, trying to sound indignant but laughing instead. “You look like a monster.”

“I’m going to hurt you, Theodore,” snapped Pansy, raising her wand to clean the dust away. 

“What? You should be hurting Draco and Daphne, they’re the ones who did something to the damn game.”

“We did nothing,” said Draco, stepping forward to take his turn. “Go complain to the bar manager if you’re so bothered.” 

He rubbed the dart between his fingers and shifted where he stood, moving his hand forward but not actually throwing. He repeated the motion a couple of times, smirking when Pansy and Theo started to protest loudly. Daphne’s laugh echoed behind them. 

Just as Draco was about to throw the dart, he saw from the corner of his eye a familiar figure rush past him. The dart flew from his fingers the second he turned his head to watch her disappear in the direction of the loo. 

“Are you kidding me?” exclaimed Theo. “He wasn’t even looking. That’s it. I’m going to find the manager, this game is bloody cursed.”

“Aw, come on, Theo--” Daphne protested.

Draco barely turned to look at them when he said, “I’m going to the loo.”

“What?” asked Daphne. “We’re winning, go later!”

“You’re _not_ winning--” started Pansy.

Draco turned on his heel, ignoring Daphne yelling his name as he stepped towards the back of the pub. The hallway Granger had turned down was thankfully empty. Draco figured someone must’ve cast a Silencing Charm, since the noise of the thick of the pub immediately faded away.

He leaned against the wall facing the ladies’ restroom, tapping his fingers against the cold concrete as he waited for her to appear. He had no idea what he’d say to Granger. _Fuck, you’re a mess_ , he cursed under his breath.

He was buzzing with nervous energy, too restless to remain still. He stepped away from the wall and started to walk down the corridor, only to retreat and approach the restroom again. 

When he had paced up and down the corridor for the third time, Draco decided he was going to go back to his friends.

“Malfoy?” she asked. 

Draco stopped in his tracks, feeling pathetic when he didn’t even hesitate to turn in her direction. She was watching him -- her expression a mixture of confusion and amusement. And it wasn’t normal, he didn’t think -- there was something completely wrong with the way his breath faltered and his heart started to race. 

“Yes?” 

Granger shifted nervously, then said, “What are you doing here?”

“This is a pub, Granger. It’s open to everyone.”

“I know _that_ .” She rolled her eyes. “Why are you always so defensive? I meant what are you doing _here_ , in front of the loo?”

“I was going to use it.” 

“The men’s restroom is on the other side of the pub,” she said. Granger laughed when he struggled to come up with a retort. “Okay then, if you’re not going to say anything I’m just going to go. Ginny’s waiting for me.”

“It’s just you and the Weaselette?” he said, ignoring her words and stepping closer.

“She has a name, you know,” sighed Granger. “I literally just said it.”

“I really don’t give a shite,” muttered Draco. He was close enough that it would take barely any effort to wrap his arm around her waist and pull her against his body, to press his lips against hers. The only thing stopping him was the thought that someone could walk in at any moment. It wouldn’t be too long before Theo or Pansy noticed he had been gone too long. “Listen, Granger. What are you doing later?” 

“Why?” she asked. Draco scoffed and took a step back. Of course she would make him say it just for the hell of it. “Why are you asking?”

“I’m going to ditch this place in an hour, then I’m going to my flat. I will leave the Floo open for you,” he said quickly, voice barely discernible. 

“You want to hang out with me?” 

“Are you fishing for compliments, Granger?”

“I don’t need you to flatter me, Malfoy,” she shrugged. “I’m just asking you a question.”

Draco contemplated turning around and leaving her staring at his back. What he really wanted was to kiss her until she forgot what she was doing, and he regained the upper hand. But he could let her have it, for once.

“I want to hang out with you, Granger,” he finally mumbled. Her triumphant grin warmed him up from the inside out. 

She didn’t let the smile linger, smoothing her expression. “Well, I’m not sure if I will be able to go.”

“Granger--”

“I’m very busy, you know. And I’m with a friend.”

“For the rest of the night?” 

“We’re having a good time,” she said with a smirk.

“Well, so are we,” he retorted. She snickered.

“Have fun with your friends,” she said, brushing past him. Draco threw out a hand to stop her, but Granger swiftly dodged him, strutting down the corridor and disappearing back into the bar. Draco almost groaned out loud.

When he returned to his friends, he searched the pub for Granger, but the booth they had been in was now occupied by a group of four random witches.

Draco swallowed his disappointment and braced himself for an hour of pretending he didn’t want to be somewhere else. 

_

Draco could recount, with terrifying precision, all the moments in which he had felt like a fool. 

The memories brought the same feeling in his chest whenever he thought about them -- his father, face burning red in fury, yelling at him to _step up, be better, be smarter, more of a man_ ; Snape's rough voice repeating commands over and over again, wand shaking in his hold as he tried to anger Draco into learning skills that didn’t come naturally to him; Voldemort’s cool, final words: _kill Albus Dumbledore_.

He could recount every single one of these moments.

But he had never felt as foolish as he did then, his elbows digging into the kitchen cupboards, heart beating out of his chest, staring at the fireplace as if he could conjure Granger by will. 

But when Granger finally stepped out of the fireplace and into his flat, looking exactly like everything he wanted, then-- 

Draco realized he’d often feel like a fool, from then on. 

Strangely, he didn’t quite mind the idea. 

_

Malfoy was watching her.

Hermione brushed her hair away from her face. She stepped towards him, feeling self-conscious. He didn’t even bother to pretend he wasn’t tracking her every move. Hermione wondered if this was how a rabbit felt when it tumbled out of a magician’s hat -- anxious, expectant, and keenly aware of being in the spotlight. 

“I see your place remains unfurnished,” said Hermione, pretending she didn’t feel the tension in the air. Malfoy’s eyes drifted all over her body, and heat pooled low in her belly.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to come,” he murmured. 

“I said I wasn’t sure if I could,” she said in a low voice. “I had some things to take care of.”

“Then why are you here now?” he asked, voice barely a whisper, watching her step closer and closer to him. 

Hermione stopped when there was barely six inches of space between their bodies. Malfoy clenched and unclenched his fists, as if trying to hold himself back.

“Who knows?” said Hermione, failing to infuse nonchalance into her voice. Instead, it came out as a raspy whimper.

“Are you messing with me, Granger?” asked Malfoy, narrowing his eyes. Hermione licked her lips and shrugged. “You _are_ messing with me.”

“What are you going to do about it?” challenged Hermione. 

Malfoy’s eyes shined with mischief. He stepped back, retreating until his back hit the cupboard and the distance between them was almost suffocating. Hermione was choking with _want_ \-- to get closer to him, to crawl up his body and kiss him until she couldn’t think anymore.

But she quite liked the way he was looking at her just then, his body relaxed but his eyes running over her body despite him trying not to, unable to stop drinking her in. 

“Oh, no, love,” muttered Malfoy, slowly shaking his head once.

“No?”

“No,” he repeated, offering her a half-smile. Hermione’s heart was thundering. She swallowed past the lump in her throat and took a step forward. “What are _you_ going to do about it?” 

Before she was fully aware of what she was doing, Hermione had closed the distance between them and placed her hands in both sides of his face, drawing him towards her and pressing their lips together.

Malfoy sighed into her mouth, wrapping his arm around her waist. She sucked gently on his lower lip, her nails scratching the faint stubble in his jaw, then down the curve of his neck. His groan came from somewhere deep in his chest, and he pulled her tightly against him. 

Her mind went completely blank -- the only thing she could feel was the warmth from his mouth and body, his fingers in her hair, and the shivers of pleasure running down her spine. 

Hermione wanted to be closer, but her body was already pressed against his. Malfoy slipped one leg between hers, and she pressed herself down hard against his thigh. The sound that escaped her lips echoed around the room. He groaned and dug his nails into the small of her back.

Malfoy ripped his lips away from hers. He exhaled sharply, and Hermione kept her eyes closed, her lashes fluttering as he dragged the tip of his nose down the side of her face. “Can I touch you, Granger?” 

_Where_ , she wanted to ask. _Everywhere_ , she wanted to say. 

But the words wouldn’t come out of her mouth. Hermione swallowed and nodded, but Malfoy didn’t move, still rubbing his nose against her cheek with a tenderness that was stark opposite to the simmering heat threatening to set them ablaze. 

“I need to hear you say it,” he muttered, his mouth barely a inch away from hers. “I want to hear you say it.”

Hermione opened her eyes to find him staring at her, the longing in his gaze stealing her breath away. She was scared -- not of his touch, exactly, but of how much she wanted him. How she wouldn’t be able to _stop_ wanting him, if they kept going like this. 

_It was too soon._ She was still wrapping her mind around the craziness that was wanting him like this, struggling to make peace with how being with him would change it all. She needed a little more time to feel him out, to get herself together. 

She raised onto her tiptoes and pressed a light kiss to his cheek. “Let’s just kiss, yeah? Can we just kiss?”

And she knew he wanted so much more, the evidence of it was nudging against her thigh, and Malfoy ran his hands up and down her back, twisting the fabric of her shirt between his fingers as if it was the only thing keeping him grounded. 

But he didn’t hesitate. He smiled, planting a soft kiss on her lips. Without a hint of resentment in his voice, he said, “Of course we can just kiss, Granger.”

_

Hermione dabbed her cheeks and neck with cold water. Malfoy’s bathroom had a huge mirror that started above the sink and stretched high up the wall. Her reflection still beamed at her as she washed her hands and turned the tap off -- her face was still flushed, and there was a mark threatening to appear in the spot where her neck met her chin. She’d have to steal some of Harry’s love bite remover once she got home. 

She walked out of the bathroom and into the main room to find Malfoy standing in front of its tall windows. He’d ditched his jacket and was sporting a white dress shirt that highlighted his strong arms. He raised his head to look at her when she stepped closer to him, twirling an unlit cigarette between his fingers.

“I’m not kissing you if you have a smoke breath,” said Hermione, stopping beside him, their legs touching. 

“If I remember correctly, you’re no stranger to cigarettes,” said Malfoy. Even as he said it, he moved to place the cigarette back in its pack and inside of his pocket. 

“You’re never going to let that go, will you?”

Malfoy snickered. “It was just too good, Granger, there’s no chance I’m ever forgetting it,” he said, then his voice grew lower, sounding less certain. “I thought you’d want to go home.” 

“Do you want me to go home?” asked Hermione. 

His words filled her with anxiety. She had stopped them before things got out of her control, and she didn’t want to consider the possibility of Malfoy having asked her there just to sleep with her.

Hermione looked up at him, and the look in his eyes softened. Malfoy scoffed, then bent his head to place a lingering kiss on her temple. Hermione closed her eyes, the anxiety seeping out of her with each second that passed. Malfoy was generous with his touch, like he craved the contact between their bodies, even when it was like this -- _tender_. 

Hermione took his hand and pulled him down to the floor with her. As always, he seemed reluctant, but she didn’t let go of his fingers until he relented. 

“Why do you insist on always sitting on the floor, Granger?” he said, scowling. 

“It’s going to keep happening until you finally buy a couch.”

Malfoy mumbled something under his breath, too low for Hermione to catch it. She leaned towards him to ask him to repeat, but he cut her off with a peck on her lips. “Come closer, Granger,” he muttered.

“I’m already close,” she said, her heart doing somersaults. Looking into his face, it was hard to remember that this Malfoy had been the one she remembered from her youth. 

“You can get closer,” said Malfoy, reaching out a hand to drag her towards him until she was practically sitting on his lap. “I brought you something.”

“You? The guy who didn’t want to buy me a cup of coffee?”

He rolled his eyes. “When are _you_ letting that go?”

“Maybe when you forget I told you about the one time I sort of smoked.”

“Not happening,” chuckled Malfoy. He wrapped a finger around one of Hermione’s curls, twirling it mindlessly, his eyes fixed on her. Hermione felt her mind finally slowing down from the chaotic pace of her day, and she relaxed against him. 

“Then I guess you’ll have to deal with it,” said Hermione. “What’s this?”

“I don’t know if I want to give it to you now, since you so unkindly questioned my generosity.” 

“Gifts shouldn’t have strings attached.”

“That’s not how Malfoys do things,” he said, reaching inside his pocket for his wand. “But I will make an exception for you, Granger, it’s not like I have any illusion of talking to you and not getting insulted.” 

Hermione watched as he pointed his wand towards the kitchen and mumbled _accio_. A box flew from one of the cabinets and landed in his hand outstretched. Malfoy hid it from her point of view before she could catch more than a fleeting glance. 

Stubbornly fighting her curiosity, Hermione tried to keep a blank face.

“Do you want it?” he asked in a teasing voice. He shook whatever he was holding, and the box made a sound she couldn’t decipher.

“Is this when I have to do something ridiculous to get it? Because, unfortunately for you, I’m not _that_ curious,” she said. Malfoy snickered.

“Maybe if I was fourteen,” he retorted. “But since I’m _not_ , a kiss will do.”

Hermione paused a second and pretended to consider it, “I don’t think so. It will set a precedent I’m not willing to live with. I guess you’ll have to do without.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to live without knowing what it is,” said Malfoy. 

They stared at each other for a beat, neither willing to give in. Hermione’s gaze fell to his lips and she leaned forward, watching with sharp eyes as Malfoy’s expression faltered. She paused when their mouths were just an inch apart. “What is it?” she whispered. 

Malfoy breathed out a shaky laugh and leaned away from her. “You’re cute, Granger.”

“Just tell me what it is.”

“I don’t know why you torture yourself,” he said. “Kiss me and I will give it to you.”

“You know I’ll kiss you later. You only want to get your way,” grumbled Hermione.

“The thing is, Granger, if you kiss me, we will _both_ get our way.” 

Hermione planted a quick and hard kiss on his lips. Malfoy smiled victoriously. Hermione almost rolled her eyes -- she could almost see his ego inflating. 

“The way you’re smiling right now, you’d think you just grabbed the Quaffle, or whatever you do in Quidditch.”

“Getting _you_ to cave is probably statistically harder than catching the snitch,” retorted Malfoy, finally handing her the box. She huffed and carefully unwrapped the package. “They’re truffles filled with liquor,” he said.. 

“Why are you always giving me alcohol?” asked Hermione, popping one in her mouth. She sighed appreciatively when the chocolate hit her tongue. 

“You can’t get drunk from a few truffles, Granger,” said Malfoy. “Even with _your_ pitiful level of alcohol tolerance. If you can even say that you have tolerance at all.” 

“Did you get these from Honeydukes?” asked Hermione, ignoring his jab. 

“Honeydukes is for plebes and teenagers,” said Malfoy. Hermione laughed, making his face twist into a scowl. “Minzy made them.”

“Guess she’s not a plebe or a teenager,” said Hermione, unwrapping her second truffle. “This is really good.”

“She’s a house elf,” said Malfoy. “You’re not going to go on a rant about the liberation of the house elves, are you?” he looked at her with suspicion. Hermione closed the box of truffles and placed it on the floor beside them before she was tempted to eat the whole thing in one sitting. 

“This might surprise you,” said Hermione, “but I know that most elves don’t want to be freed. I acknowledge it, even if I don’t understand it. I still believe they should be paid for their services and given dignified living conditions, which most Wizarding families don’t provide and is completely barbaric. Did you know that seventy-five percent of house elves--”

“I unleashed a monster,” sighed Malfoy, digging his chin into her shoulder. “I assure you, Granger, my elf lives in perfectly dignified conditions. Minzy is a very happy and healthy creature.”

“I’m not thanking you for doing the bare minimum.”

“Like I would expect you to,” said Malfoy. He started laughing. “Will I get a proper kiss now, for the gift?”

“I already kissed you,” mumbled Hermione. 

“That thing? I’m not thanking you for doing the bare minimum,” he mocked. 

She should be annoyed at his arrogant voice and unfiltered swagger, at how he teased and poked at her soft spots to flirt or get her ruffled. 

It should grate on her nerves.

But Hermione was, against her best efforts, charmed. 

So she allowed him to softly take her chin and lock their lips together. The angle was awkward, making it impossible for her to kiss him as deeply as she wanted to, so in an unspoken agreement, they moved their bodies until they laid fully on the floor. 

Malfoy was on his back, Hermione half on top of him -- they traded the sort of soft and unhurried kisses that made her limbs lazy and her eyes heavy, tingles of pleasure travelling down her spine as she ran her fingers through his hair.

He had one hand under her shirt, his fingers skimming back and forth over her lower back. Hermione’s mind was the quietest she ever remembered it being. 

It was the easiest, most comfortable thing in the world to fall asleep just like that -- her head on his chest, his arms around her -- engulfed in a safeness that didn’t leave room for anything but sweet and soothing dreams. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been getting so many insightful comments from you all. Last chapter, the lovely @YellowGladiolus17 said "In a patriarchy, men side with other men, even potential enemies," and it really stuck with me. Some of what Hermione (and Cartwell) go through is very loosely inspired by things I've lived in the workplace, things my female friends have gone through, etc. 
> 
> I think that'd still be applicable to the Wizarding World. And as the story progresses, we'll see it come to play in different levels, and with other female characters :) It makes me excited to be able to portray this somewhat realistically. 
> 
> I hope you had fun with the Theo and Hermione interaction here. That scene wasn't even in my outlines initially, but he always pops up in the page in ways that I don't expect (I gotta love writing him);
> 
> I'm genuinely so excited for you guys to read what's to come :) let me know your thoughts on this one, and hit me up on my tumblr https://masterofinfinities.tumblr.com/ if you want to chat more.
> 
> I'll be back soon!


	17. I Made This Place for You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-ed by the fantastic @jeparlepasfrancais; check end notes for content warning (if you don't mind the spoiler);

"I crawled out the window and ran into the woods. I had to make up all the words myself. The way they taste, the way they sound in the air. I passed through the narrow gate, stumbled in, stumbled around for a while, and stumbled back out.  **I made this place for you.** A place for you to love me. **If this isn’t a kingdom then I don’t know what is.”** — Snow and Dirty Rain, Richard Siken

* * *

_ “Bloody hell.” _

It was early in the morning. Hermione’s head was nestled in the indent in Malfoy’s chest, and their legs were entangled. The last thing she wanted to do was move, but she could feel him breathing heavily underneath her. 

“Malfoy?” whispered Hermione, grudgingly opening her eyes. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I forgot to transfigure a cot,” he grumbled, voice rough from sleep. “I think my back will split in two.” Hermione chuckled, but when she tried to get up, his hand shot out to push her back on his chest. “I’m not telling you to move.”

“You were just complaining.”

“About the floor, not about you,” he said. “If I knew how hard this floor was, I wouldn't have bought this bloody flat.”

“The architect probably didn’t predict its future owner would rather sleep on the floor than buy himself a bed,” said Hermione. “Especially considering he’s not hurting for cash.”

“Shhh,” said Malfoy, patting her head softly. “Quiet time. No insulting me, now.” 

“Nah,” said Hermione, pulling his hand away from her head and resting her chin on his chest so she could look at his face. “Once I’m up, that’s it, no procrastinating. And we have a meeting later today, did you forget?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. His face was soft from sleep. Hermione reached a hand and rubbed a finger over the mark on his cheek. Malfoy’s eyes were squinted, and strands of unruly hair fell across on his forehead. She didn’t think it was a bad sight to wake up to. 

“It’s barely six in the morning, Granger, chill out,” he said, reaching a hand to grab her wrist. He leaned down awkwardly and planted a kiss on her lips. “You have morning breath.”

“I’m going to punch you,” said Hermione, her words sounding muffled as he kept pressing their lips together. “I should go, Malfoy. I have to feed Crookshanks, he probably scratched all over my door by now.” 

“What’s that?” asked Malfoy, wrapping his arm around her to keep her from moving.

“He’s my cat.”

“You still have that ugly beast that kept chasing you around school?” said Malfoy.

“Don’t call my child a ugly beast.”

“I don’t like cats,” he retorted. 

“And I don’t like you.”

Malfoy chuckled at that. “I beg to differ,” he said, running his hand up Hermione’s back until he closed his fingers around the nape of her neck. He squeezed softly. “You kiss people you don’t like?”

“It’s morning and you’re holding me hostage in your empty flat, don’t push me,” warned Hermione, but she allowed her body to relax over his. 

_ I should leave _ , she thought. But Malfoy was so comfortable, and warm. The sunbeams peeking through the windows were the softest wake up call she could get. 

And going home meant tiptoeing around to avoid Harry’s attention. And more than that, she didn’t want to go to the center that afternoon, knowing she’d have to pretend she was okay working somewhere that didn’t have her back. 

_ The bloody meeting _ , thought Hermione. Her evening out with first Ginny and then Malfoy had taken her mind off things momentarily, but the anger and resentment were finally catching up. 

Hermione was tired of letting things happen around her. 

“I can hear you thinking,” said Malfoy, pinching her arm softly to get her attention. “Thinking is not allowed in the morning, Granger.”

“It’s not like you think much other times of the day, either,” she muttered. He poked at the soft spot over her ribs in retaliation. Hermione yelped. 

“All the arse kissing is finally getting to your head, isn’t it?” he said. “And you say  _ I’m  _ arrogant.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t,” said Hermione. She placed her hand on his stomach, rubbing circles over the fabric of his shirt. 

“Yeah, yeah,” said Malfoy. They stayed quiet for a moment. Hermione’s head was still a whirlwind of concern. She exhaled an exasperated breath. “What is it?”

“What?”

“What's ruining my plans for a peaceful morning?” 

Hermione hesitated. She didn’t know if she should talk to him about it, but the more she thought about it, the more Hermione realized she was working with insufficient data. 

At that moment, Malfoy was her only accessible source of information.

With her mind made up, Hermione moved until they were face to face. She placed her arms on the floor by each side of his head. Malfoy shifted so she could rest more comfortably, placing a hand on the small of her back. 

“So I know this is a little random, but do you remember what guidelines you were given about the rehab program when you first got in? Can you tell me?”

“You want to talk about the program now? Seriously?” said Malfoy, frowning. 

“It’s important,” she insisted. To placate him, she kissed the hollow of his throat. 

“They actually weren’t very specific,” he murmured. He looked at a point over her shoulder as he considered her question. “I had my hearing with the Wizengamot about seven months after the war ended, and the MRC wasn’t even a thing back then.”

“Oh, so none of you got assigned into the program immediately?”

“Nah,” he yawned. “I got a huge fine. Seized half of our estate with mine and my parents’ sentences together. I didn’t care in the beginning, we have a lot of worthless junk, but then they just kept taking stuff.”

“Like those books I gave back?” 

“Yeah, pretty much,” said Malfoy. “How did you even get your hands on them? Is the Ministry just giving my stuff away?”

“Harry gave them to me, he must have found them in the DMLE,” said Hermione. “I can’t believe how all of this circles back to money,” she continued. She reached to tap him on the cheek until he looked her in the eyes again. “So, how did you get placed in the program?”

“Well, on top of all the fines and seizures and whatnot, they also gave me house arrest for a year, and there was a really vague clause in my probation paperwork saying I could be called up for ‘societal services’ whenever the Wizengamot felt like it. Same thing happened to Theo and Pansy, but they didn’t even get house arrest.” He kissed her forehead, shifting beneath her so that her head was on his shoulder. He closed his eyes. “My lawyer is a complete fuckwad.”

“So you got called up for the program out of nowhere?” she said.

“Pretty much,” he sighed. “Why do you care, Granger?”

“I’m just curious,” she said, kissing the side of his neck. He shivered.

“I think it happened a month after they created the MRC. Called a bunch of us in and said we had to go to meetings, and pose for photos in  _ The Daily Prophet _ . It was more of an annoyance than anything. But they said we’d end up in Azkaban if we didn’t comply.” He yawned again.

“Who said that?” 

“Um, Kingsley. I think the Head Auror before Saint Potter was there too, and the older McLaggen, and some other Wizengamot judges.”

“Weird,” said Hermione.

“Yeah,” agreed Malfoy, nuzzling her cheek. “It was me and Goyle and the Carrow twins in a group at first, but they got released really quickly. Merlin knows why, they obviously weren’t reformed.”

“Very weird,” she said absent-mindedly. 

“Didn’t they tell you all this when they interviewed you for the position?”

“Oh, I didn’t interview,” said Hermione. “I wasn’t actually supposed to work with the program.” She felt Malfoy stiffen. “I was supposed to help with administrative work, but Hughman kind of surprised me with this job when I showed up.” 

“Weird,” he echoed. 

They stayed in silence for a second, each thinking about what the other said. Hermione had more sitting on her chest. She weighed the situation -- she ached to have someone to share her thoughts with, and Malfoy was there, and she trusted him. 

Finally, she whispered, “I told Cartwell about what Rookwood did.” 

“You did?”

“Yeah, a couple days ago. And they called me in for a meeting yesterday. He’s going to be fined. Which doesn’t seem fair to me.”

Malfoy scoffed. “Did those idiots at least get him good? I know for a fact Rookwood didn’t have to pay as much as I did when he first got sentenced.” 

“Malfoy, the money doesn’t matter,” said Hermione. “How on earth a fine is an appropriate punishment for what he did?”

“It’s not,” agreed Malfoy, his voice raising a pitch in anger. “Rookwood is a bastard, but I don’t know why you’re surprised, this program is a total sham. You can find better ways to screw him over on your own. I can help you.” 

“It’s not a sham,” said Hermione, a bit louder. Malfoy shifted beneath her again. “Cartwell’s completely invested in this program. I wouldn’t have joined if I didn’t think it was legitimate. And what are you even suggesting?” 

“The Rookwoods are lunatics, Granger, but that’s not enough to get you shunned from the pureblood community. But the right rumor would make them outcasts, and Theo knows a lot of people. We could even make him lose some money, if we play our cards right.”

“Again, it’s not about the money,” repeated Hermione, not entirely surprised by his suggestion. “And I don’t want to have to create a scheme so he’ll be held accountable. I want the Wizarding legal system to work as it should.”

“Alright, alright,” said Malfoy in the verbal equivalent of throwing his hands up. She balked at the appeasing undertone of his words. 

“Don’t patronize me, Malfoy.” said Hermione. “Seriously, don’t. I’m not being  _ unreasonable _ .” Malfoy frowned at the vehemence in her voice.

“I’m not patronizing you, Granger,” he said in a low, soothing voice. “We can argue about this all morning if you want. But you’re not going to change my mind, and I won’t change yours.”

“I know,” said Hermione, but Harry’s many accusations were still ringing in her ears, almost like chants in the back of her mind, making her feel defensive. “But it’s not unreasonable to want Rookwood to pay for what he did legally.”

Hermione felt her chest tighten with frustration, and Malfoy must have read it in her expression, because he lifted a hand to tuck a curl behind her ear, then pressed his finger under her chin, making sure she was meeting his gaze.

“And I never suggested that, Granger,” said Malfoy, sounding exasperated. “I don't think you’re bloody unreasonable. I’d deal with the situation differently, though. I’m not pretending otherwise.”

Hermione felt her blood rush to her cheeks, but Malfoy kept going. “Come on, let’s just agree to disagree,” he said. ”Rookwood is a scumbag, the system is flawed, and you’re not going to make the entire pureblood population of the Wizarding World see the errors of their ways anytime in the next century. But I see that you’re trying. Okay? Listen, I’m not--” he exhaled a frustrated breath when he felt her scrunch into herself. “Hey, let’s not think about all of that for a second, okay? Can you do that?”

Hermione wanted to tell him so much, right in that second. More than he could even imagine. It ached, to feel so exposed in front of another person. 

To be seen and have nowhere to hide. 

“Granger, can you do that?” he pressed. He placed his hands on either side of her chin, and gently tugged her face towards his. “Can you?”

Hermione pressed her lips against his, losing count of how many times she had done it since the previous night. “Okay,” she murmured, and he pulled her closer. She exhaled into the kiss, feeling a weight lift from her. She turned off the switch in her mind, not because he had asked her to, but because he had made her want to do it.

As she let herself be enveloped by his warmth, Hermione felt safeness and peacefulness settle on her skin like butterfly kisses.

_

As she stepped out of her fireplace and into the MRC’s building, Hermione’s mind flashed to her conversation with Malfoy that morning. His words had been, unintentionally, the push that Hermione needed to do what she felt was right. The idea had followed her from the second she had left his flat and as she went through her morning routine. 

It was probably a mix of her uneasiness over the entire ordeal and the mellowed state the morning had left her in that made the decision to walk up to Hughman’s office so easy. 

“Miss Granger,” greeted Hughman. He had a cheerful smile on his face, and bounced a little on his feet. “Come in, come in, let’s not stand here.”

“Thank you,” said Hermione, walking past him and into his office. She waited for Hughman to close the door and make his way to his desk before sitting in the armchair in front of him. Her eyes immediately wandered to the photo framed above his head. It was still crooked. 

“So, Miss Granger,” said Hughman, resting his elbows on top of the desk to give her his full attention. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? Ah, I know, of course, you want to talk about that donation, right?”

“Oh, no, sir,” started Hermione, but Hughman waved her off.

“Don’t be humble, Miss Granger. It was quite the accomplishment, of course,” he said, nodding his head eagerly.” I have just the idea. How about we call Mr. Kuiling in for a visit? You could show him around, maybe even inspire him to donate some more. We can schedule it for a day when you aren’t busy helping Cartwell with those criminals. Don’t you think that’d be exciting?”

Hermione would’ve been more excited to walk barefoot in the Forbidden Forest, but when he gazed at her with an expectant expression, she nodded and pretended to consider it. “Maybe. But I actually wanted to talk about something else, if you don’t mind.”

Hughman tugged at his tie and said, “Well, of course. We can go back to that later. Go ahead, Miss Granger.”

Hermione took in a sharp breath, then started. “Sir, I understand that you felt that the Wizengamot’s decision about Rookwood was the right one, but I’ve been thinking it over and have to say that I don’t agree with it,” she said. Hughman immediately stiffened, but she didn’t let it derail her. “The rehab program was started to reform those individuals, but also to hold them accountable for their actions during and after the war. Telling Rookwood that he can pay his way out of facing the music for his racism completely undermines our message.”

“Miss Granger, I’m sure you understand that our relationship with the Wizengamot is extremely important to our long-term success with this program. I think pushing this matter might just cause an unnecessary headache, don’t you agree?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t understand,” said Hermione firmly. Hughman’s mouth was slightly agape. “Our program simply cannot accomplish its goals if we can’t hold our members responsible. When I started here, you told me about the Center’s high standard of excellence. Shouldn’t the Wizengamot be helping us achieve this standard?”

“You’re right that our center has a standard of excellence,” said Hughman. Hermione almost groaned. He’d fixated on the least important thing she’d said. “But this is a very delicate matter, Miss Granger. The Wizengamot has made its decision very clear. Of course, I understand you are very upset about how Mr. Rookwood acted towards you, but it’s completely out of my hands.”

Hermione’s eyes travelled back to the crooked frame, her mind racing to think of something that would make him change his mind. She watched the photograph-Hughman beam proudly towards the camera, puffing out his chest as he turned to shake Shacklebolt’s hand. 

Something inside her flipped like a switch.

“Ah, I understand your position completely,” said Hermione, feigning an innocent smile. “Okay then, director, I guess I did try.”

Hughman grinned in satisfaction, “I knew that someone as bright as yourself wouldn’t have any problem understanding the situation, of course.”

“ _ Of course _ ,” said Hermione, pushing her chair back and standing up. “We should definitely schedule that visit with the Auror, sir.”

“Yes? That’s fantastic, Miss Granger. I will make sure Edina contacts him immediately.”

“Certainly. I mean,” she started, picking up her purse and putting it over her shoulder, “Mr. Kuiling donated a lot of money, so he should see the reality of the center, shouldn’t he?” 

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

“You know, Mr. Kuiling and I had a long conversation at the ball,” she continued. “He told me his late mother was a muggleborn. He was very pleased to hear the center was so committed to the fight against blood supremacy.”

Hermione’s eyes sparkled as she watched the expression on Hughman’s face falter. She took a step back, but stopped behind the chair, skimming her fingers over the leather.

“He also mentioned that he’d be talking to family friends about the MRC,” said Hermione casually. “He was sure they’d be very interested in donating as well.” She leaned in. “I’m not saying he’d be  _ appalled _ to learn about the Wizengamot’s disregard of the mistreatment of the MRC’s only Muggleborn employee, but I guess that’s a risk we’ll have to take, since there’s nothing we can do to change their decision.”

“Miss Granger, of course the Wizengamot cares deeply--” he tried.

“I’m sure they do,” said Hermione. “I just wonder if Mr. Kuiling will share that opinion, you know? And considering all of his affluent friends, I guess I’m a little concerned about what might happen if the word gets out. You know how rumors fly in a community as small as our Wizarding one.” Hermione waited a beat. “Anyway, just a thought,” she said sweetly. “Thank you for the meeting, sir,” 

Hermione turned on her heel and headed to the door. She had barely grabbed the knob when she heard Hughman say, “Miss Granger?” She bit back a smile, making sure to clear her face of any trace of amusement before she turned to face him again. 

“Yes?” she said in a calm voice. 

“Let’s hold off on calling Mr. Kuiling for a visit, shall we?” he said. He tugged at his tie, his forehead shining with sweat. “I will contact the Wizengamot again, Like I told you before, they take these matters very seriously, of course, and if you feel so passionately about their decision I’m certain they wouldn’t mind looking over their report again.”

“Oh, there’s no need,” said Hermione, waving a hand. “I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you. I’ve already taken up so much of your time today.”

“It’s no inconvenience, of course, Miss Granger. It’d be an honor to follow up on this matter and reassure you of your importance to the center,” he said quickly. “You’re a very valuable member of our staff.”

Hermione stalled for a second, pretending to be conflicted over his offer. “Well, if you’re sure, sir.”

“I’m completely sure,” he said. “Please, it’s my pleasure.”

“Thank you, then, I appreciate your support,” said Hermione, offering him a smile that narrowly avoided being a smirk. “I’ll let you get back to your work now then. Thank you again, sir.”

“Of course, Miss Granger, it’s not a problem.” 

Hermione smiled one more time, then opened the door and made her way out of the office. 

After closing the door behind her, she walked down the hallway with her head held high, feeling lighter than usual as both pride and the feeling of victory lightened her up from the inside out. 

_

Hermione studied the group’s faces. The leftover high of her accomplishment was still dancing inside of her, but she tried not to show it. She avoided lingering on Malfoy for too long. He’d taken to looking at her with a new glint on his eyes, like they shared all sorts of secrets. 

“I’ve read your assignments,” she said. “I’m happy to say that I’m pleasantly surprised. Most of you sounded very sincere.” The group looked surprised at her words. “I have some of the passages from your essays here, I thought I’d read them out loud and we can discuss them.”

“I thought they were going to remain anonymous,” said Pansy in a snarky tone.

“It will. I don’t know who wrote what, and you won’t recognize any essays except your own,” said Hermione. She waited for them to protest, but when none did, she picked up the parchment and started reading. 

_ My conversation with this woman reminded me of my first year in Hogwarts. I made a friend from another house. I hadn’t even thought about their blood status until I went back home for Christmas and told my father about them. That was the first time my parents opened up our family grimoire and explained that my friend and I were different. I told my father I didn’t understand. I was punished and sent back to Hogwarts, so I never talked to my friend again. _

Hermione’s eyes scanned over the room, cataloguing their faces before continuing. “I’ll bet at least one of you can relate to that. You know, confining someone to a specific community is a very effective way to make sure they don’t open their minds to diversity. I can imagine it was easy for your parents to do that, even when you were away at Hogwarts.”

“You’re not going to villainize our parents, Granger,” snapped Pansy, face twisted in a scowl. Hermione remained unfazed.

“Do you agree with everything your parents tell you?” asked Hermione.

“My father was a bastard,” said Theo. The corners of his mouth lifted slightly when he heard Malfoy’s snort. “What? It’s the truth. I don’t want to be like him.” Hermione caught, from the side of her eye, Malfoy’s subtle nod of agreement. 

“You don’t want to be like him, but you still perpetuate his ideology?”

“Do I?” retorted Theo, his smile growing. He didn’t sound like he was lying. Maybe it was the lingering euphoria she’d felt earlier that day, but Hermione was feeling hopeful. She had to bite back a smile. 

“Well,” said Hermione, grabbing another parchment. “Parents were kind of a theme in most of your assignments. Another one of you said that they talked with an ex-classmate about their families, and that they were both shocked to learn how similar their relationships with their parents were. They wrote that it made them wonder what else would be similar between them.”

“Are you trying to insinuate we have daddy issues?” said Malfoy. Hermione turned to him, narrowing her eyes. 

“I wouldn’t call it that,” said Hermione. “What I meant to say is that we’re such a different generation than our parents, so we have more in common with each other than we do with them. It amazes me that there hasn’t been more progress on blood status issues.”

“Tradition is the foundation of pureblood culture,” said Pansy, studying her nails. “Any progress we make evolves from the foundation we’ve already built.”

“Maybe so,” said Hermione, “but is there really that much of a foundation to build on? Purebloods supremacy has always been a minority view. And as far as I remember, pureblood supremacists haven’t won any war.” 

Theo elbowed Malfoy, who snickered and bumped his shoulder harshly. Pansy shot them both a sharp look of annoyance. They seemed more amused at Pansy’s sputtering than angry at Hermione’s words. 

Rookwook didn’t seem to agree. He held himself defensively as he snapped. “Your mistake is to think that the war is over.”

“Do you know something that I don’t, Rookwood?” said Hermione. “Because if you’re insinuating what I think you are, we might have to take that up to the DMLE.” 

“Isn’t Potter the new Head Auror?” snickered Theo. 

“That’s irrelevant,” snapped Hermione, eyes still locked on Rookwood. “So?”

“I only meant figuratively,” he said grudgingly, but Hermione caught the malice in his eyes. 

People like Rookwood were the reason Voldemort still had a following. They didn’t thrive outside of battle. Hermione thought about the Wizengamot placing him in the program instead of in an Azkaban cell, then refusing to punish him appropriately, and felt anger boiling up.

“Not even figuratively,” said Malfoy, rolling his eyes. “But Rookwood here knows he doesn’t speak for all of us.” 

“Why are you such a cunt, Malfoy?” 

“Language,” snapped Hermione, cutting in before he could retort. “What do you mean by that, Malfoy?” 

He was staring at Rookwood with distaste and deep anger, his lips curled in a sneer. Like he was a cockroach that he almost couldn’t bring himself to step on. It sent an unpleasant feeling running through her. “Malfoy?”

He dragged his eyes away from Rookwood. When found her, his gaze softened almost imperceptibly, but Hermione caught it, her heart faltering then picking up pace -- 

Malfoy had never looked at her like that. Not when he was angry, or upset with her. 

And now -- now the way he looked at her made her heart soar. 

“We already said we aren’t interested in war,” he finally said. “Maybe that’s enough to make us different from our parents, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” said Hermione, still recovering. “But maybe not wanting it just isn’t enough. Maybe you have to change every aspect of your life to make sure it  _ doesn’t  _ happen. That starts with these meetings, but it doesn’t stop here.”

The corner of Malfoy’s mouth twitched, and Hermione had to drag her eyes away from him, afraid that she’d give them both away.

_

“Someone seems to be in a good mood.” Hermione didn’t bother to feign surprise as she turned around, finding Malfoy lingering by the Solarium’s entrance. “You’re not going to reducio the chairs today?”

“I told Cartwell about changing locations when we talked about Rookwood,” she answered, closing her purse before looking up. “You have to stop staying back, how long do you think it’s going to take before someone realizes you do this after every meeting?”

Malfoy huffed, “You give those morons too much credit, Granger.” Hermione’s chest rose with anticipation as he walked further into the room with slow, measured steps, reminding her of a cat in the middle of a hunt. 

She lifted a palm to stop him when he got too close. “I’m dead serious. I bumped into Theo at the bar last night and he talked about you like he knew something,” said Hermione, who was slowly realizing the unethical circumstances of her relationship with Malfoy. 

She’d been too busy denying whatever it was that they were doing to acknowledge it properly, but it was hard to do so when she had spent the previous night slumped against him on his apartment’s floor. 

“A word of advice, Granger,” he said, covering her hand with his. “Theo’ll spew random shite just to see how you’ll react. And from the way you’re blushing, I’m guessing you gave him exactly what he wanted.” 

“I’m not blushing,” retorted Hermione. “And it’s not my fault that Theo has some hidden agenda. How am I supposed to know he’s trying to trap me into admitting things he shouldn’t know in the first place?”

“If it makes you feel better, he does it with literally everyone. He’s such a damn gossip,” said Malfoy. He cocked his head. “Seriously, fess up, Granger. You’re looking way too perky. It’s creeping the bloody hell out of me.” 

She rolled her eyes, taking her hand away from his. “I met with Hughman earlier. He’s going to talk to the Wizengamot about Rookwood again.”

“And how did you manage to make that happen?”

“I just made the director aware of the consequences if he didn’t,” said Hermione. She was silent for a beat, then palmed her face when it dawned on her, “Merlin, I sounded exactly like you.”

Malfoy chuckled, “Maybe that’s what happens when a lion mixes with a snake.”

“That’s the corniest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” snorted Hermione, her eyes sparkling with amusement. She couldn’t help but smile. He looked so young when he joked around. “But I’m serious. Do you realize I work here? That I'm in charge of these meetings? I shouldn’t even be hanging around you like this.” 

His face fell momentarily, and Hermione cursed herself for ruining the light atmosphere between them. But reality was knocking on the door. 

“Let’s get out of here, then.”

“That’s not really the point,” said Hermione. “We really shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Granger,” said Malfoy, “Why do you have to make everything so difficult?”

“If I make things so difficult for you, then why do you want to hang out with me so badly?” 

“Ah, that’s the million galleon question right there. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment,” sighed Malfoy. Hermione struggled to hold onto her annoyance. “Or maybe Lucius dropped me in the head as a baby.”

“And I’m the one who’s perky?” said Hermione, biting her bottom lip. “I see what you’re trying to do, insulting yourself to soften me up until I agree to do what you say.”

“Is it working?” 

Hermione paused -- the more Malfoy looked at her with heat in his eyes and a smile on his lips, the closer her heart was to defeating her head. 

“Are you going to take me to your unfurnished flat?” said Hermione. “Because I don’t think my back can handle your hard floor again.” 

Malfoy exhaled, pretending to be put out, “If I recall correctly, which I do, you mostly slept on top of me.”

“I don’t think so,” lied Hermione, shaking her head. Malfoy reached out to gently grab her arm and pull her closer. “You really don’t take me seriously, do you?” 

“ _ I do _ ,” said Malfoy, his voice dropping an octave. He curled his arm around her waist and squeezed her to him, then bent his head to nuzzle her cheek, his nose sliding back and forth over the soft skin. Hermione’s legs shook and she exhaled a sigh. She felt defenseless against his touch. 

Malfoy softly kissed the corner of her lips, and Hermione pressed her eyes closed, breathing him in. Her mind was going alarmly silent. Malfoy paused by her ear, whispering, “which is why I’m not taking you to my unfurnished flat.”

_

Draco squinted at the bright sunlight and pulled his sunglasses out of his pocket. He placed them on his face, turning around in time to catch Granger’s baffled expression as she took in the scenery.

“Where are we?” she asked, hands on her hips. 

“Venice.” 

Granger’s eyes widened. 

He had apparated them to a Wizarding district near Cannaregio Canal. It was familiar, even if he usually didn’t come willingly. Short, mismatched but charming buildings rose out of the water, jostling each other for space. The cobblestone plaza was bustling with activity. There were almost as many shopping bags as people -- witches, wizards, and pigeons bumped into each other as they entered and exited store after store. Granger jumped to avoid being smacked by an older woman hurriedly marching down the street. 

He reached a hand to steady her.

"Malfoy, international apparition is illegal,” said Granger in a low voice. 

“I have a license,” he shrugged. “Besides, it’s not like I had the time to get a portkey, Granger. This is something of a spur-of-the-moment trip.”

“Why are we in Italy?” asked Hermione. She seemed to have forgotten about breaking the law, too busy looking around in awe to protest when he grabbed her hand and pulled her down the street with him. 

“Weren’t you just complaining about how empty my flat is?” he said. “Well, here we are, Granger. Here to solve your problems.”

“We had to come to Italy so you can buy a couch?”

“Well, of course, Granger,” he said, pulling her out of the way of the young couple who she had almost wandered into. She smiled at them apologetically, then let go of his hand and looped her arm through his, allowing him to guide her. “Do you think I go shopping in Diagon Alley?”

“I think you’re very high-maintenance if you have to go to another country just to shop,” she said. Draco chuckled. It was true. 

They stopped in front of what looked like a Mediterranean cottage. Its grey stone walls were covered in vines, green with small pink flowers. Above the wooden door was one large window, warded by a concealment charm that made it impossible to see inside. 

Draco knocked twice, smirking as Granger squirmed with unease. It wasn’t hard to notice that she wasn’t comfortable in unfamiliar surroundings.

“What is  _ La Farfalla Concept _ ?” she finally asked, reading the small sign hanging over the door.

“A furniture shop.”

“It looks like a house.”

“It’s quite exclusive, you usually have to make an appointment months in advance,” said Draco, just to see her predictable reaction. Granger scrunched up her nose and shifted closer to him, as if someone was about to come out and grab her. It made his mind flash to the first time she took him to Muggle London --  _ Not so confident when you’re the one being led around, huh?  _ He was about to say it out loud when the door opened. Granger flinched in surprise. “Why are you so squirmish?”

“I don’t know,” she said, still gripping his arm. He chuckled. “I thought this wasn’t planned?” she said suspiciously.

“My mother redecorates at least a few of the Manor’s rooms every year. We basically buy this place out when she does.  _ We  _ don’t need to make appointments.” said Draco, pulling Granger through the door with him. 

The door shut behind them with a loud thud. Despite its modest exterior, the shop’s interior stretched further than they could see from the hall. Shelves full of exquisite knick-knacks went high up the ceiling, where members of the staff carefully levitated golden tassels and ornate throw pillows. Each section of the store was fully decorated to display the large array of furniture specific to each period. 

“Hello, Mr. Malfoy,” greeted a soft voice from somewhere over his shoulder. Draco dragged his eyes away from Granger to find the familiar face of Zeta Moretti. She smiled shyly at him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s been awhile since we had the pleasure of having you here.” She spoke with a slight Veronese accent. 

“Hello, Zeta,” said Draco, accepting the two kisses she planted on each cheek. “Thank you for having us on such short notice. This is Hermione.”

“Hello,” she said, barely sparing Granger a glance before turning back to Draco. “There is no need to thank me, we always make time for your family.” She beamed at him, and Granger dug her nails into his arm, making him flinch. “I took the liberty of selecting some of your mother’s favorite pieces. I can take you to look at them while your friend here sits in our waiting area.”

“There’s no need,” said Granger through gritted teeth. Draco bit on his bottom lip to prevent a chuckle from escaping.

“Thank you, Zeta, but I’m not shopping for the Manor,” he said, watching as her face fell. “We’ll just take a look around by ourselves, if you don’t mind?”

“Of course, feel free to roam around,” she said, looking reluctant to leave. Granger stepped an inch closer to Draco, and Zeta grimaced. “Mr. Malfoy, call my name if you need anything, please. Anything at all.”

Once the woman had disappeared around a corner, Granger turned to him with her lips parted and eyes wide. “For Godric’s sake, that woman totally wants to get in your pants.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “She’s in her fifties, Granger. She’s my mother’s friend.”

Hermione snickered. “That makes it even funnier. You’re popular with the cougars, apparently.” Draco shuddered, and she laughed harder. “Draco Malfoy, the geriatric heartthrob,” she teased. 

“You didn’t seem to think it was so funny when she was here, you almost ripped my arm off,” said Draco, looking around the room. “And you almost burned a hole through Pansy’s head last night at the bar. I must say, Granger, your jealousy is extremely entertaining.”

“Ha,” she faked a laugh. “You were just waiting for the opportunity to mention that, weren’t you?” She pointed at a huge leather sectional. “Look, that’s a cute couch.”

“You’re not distracting me,” grumbled Draco. “And that couch is ugly.” 

“I’m not trying to. I’m not the jealous type, and you’re delusional if you think so,” said Granger in a sing-song voice, moving away from him to skim her fingers over the leather. She turned to him with amusement. “Don’t you want to build your own bachelor pad? This screams ‘I like to smoke cigarettes and brood all evening.’” 

“We’ll get back to that later,” said Draco, crossing his arms as he watched Granger skip around the rows of couches. “When did you get the impression I spend my time brooding?” 

Granger stopped, placing her hands on her hips. “How am I supposed to help you pick if I don’t know what you like, Malfoy? Maybe you should ask  _ Zeta  _ to come back, she seems to know everything about your taste in furniture. She did say she’ll help you with  _ anything _ ,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows. 

“You’re not funny,” said Draco, but he chuckled anyway. “I don’t have a taste in furniture, Granger. Let’s pick something to sit on and get the hell out of here.” 

“Oh no,” she shook her head. “We didn’t illegally apparate to another country to pick one couch and go back. We'll furnish that entire bloody flat. I hope your wallet is full today.” 

Draco rolled his eyes. “They make a transaction request and Gringotts transfers the money directly, Granger. No wizard carries enough galleons to pay what this shite costs.” he said, moving to stand beside her. He tried to be subtle as he reached for her hand. 

He felt ridiculous, being like this -- wanting the touch of her skin on his all the bloody time, feeling half empty when she was just a few steps away. 

“I’m sorry for not knowing how rich people work,” she said sarcastically. Granger arched a brow, her eyes fixed on his face as he slowly intertwined their fingers. She always looked at him with conflicting emotions, like she wanted to reach out as much as he did, but she wouldn’t let herself. “Where’s the sudden desire to decorate that flat coming from, Malfoy?”

Draco toyed with her fingers, rubbing his other hand over his jaw nervously. He hadn’t shaved that morning, remembering the feel of Granger dragging her nails through the scruff. “Maybe I’m finally going to sell it. I have to find a way to disguise how hard the floors are.”

“Not made to sleep on?” 

“Not at all,” said Draco, shaking his head. 

_ We’ll find something better to sleep on,  _ he thought, but didn’t say it.

Granger slowly rubbed her thumb against his knuckle. Draco felt the room around them shrink. 

“Alright then,” she said. “Let’s do this.” 

_

They had been there for over three hours by the time Draco managed to convince Granger they had seen every piece of furniture in the shop. 

More than the furniture, he was entertained by how she tried to remain neutral as he scanned his options, but couldn’t hide when she didn’t like something. Granger refused to share her opinion when he asked outright, so he pretended to seriously consider the most absurd options, like the claw-footed ottoman, and watch as she struggled to not point out her preferred choice.

Granger was terrible at hiding what she really thought, but Draco was certain that she’d missed how he’d been marking everything she picked. By the time he had finalized the purchase and arranged delivery, the moon was high in the sky and the night had turned bitterly cold.

The street was scarcely illuminated, the atmosphere subdued now that it wasn’t as busy. A family of three strolled on the opposite sidewalk. A group of teenagers laughed boisterously a few feet in front of them, bottles of firewhiskey dangling from their fingers as they gleamed with light and youth. 

Granger had pulled a jacket out from her bottomless purse. Her arm bumped against his as they walked in silence towards the nearest apparition point.

Draco was grasping for a reason to extend the night, to keep her by his side for a bit longer. Asking her openly seemed too raw, like peeling back his skin. He wasn’t scared to give her a look. It turned his stomach that he wanted to -- too much, too fast. 

But the options were clear to Draco.

He could say goodbye, go back to his flat, and stare at his newly purchased furniture, more her choice than his. Maybe he’d go to the Manor instead, strike up a conversation with his mother and pretend that what he’d done with Granger wasn’t a betrayal to everything she’d taught him. He’d pretend he didn't know the exact shape of her lips, that he knew the way she sounded when he touched her just so -- how she got aggravated by the smallest things, but let go of her anger generously, like she didn’t want to keep bitterness inside of her. How she was passionate and funny and how he wanted her so much he didn’t know what to bloody do about it. 

He squeezed her hand, and she turned to give him a small smile. Draco felt his heart grow twice its normal size. 

At the apparition point, they stood facing each other, shuffling in their feet as hesitation soured the air between them. It was the most awkward they had been in weeks.

“Malfoy-”

“Granger-”

They paused. Draco sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. The look on Granger’s face was painfully uncertain. They had spent the previous night wrapped up in each other, but he didn’t think the enormity of it had dawned on them until just then. 

Here they were, having spent the entire day holding hands and joking around and still unable to say, _ “come home with me.”  _

“Malfoy?” asked Granger, voice soft. “What do you want to do now?”

_ And isn’t that the question?  _ he thought. He sighed and stepped closer to her, leaning down to press a lingering kiss on her shoulder. Granger shivered, and he smiled. 

“I want to go home with you, Granger,” muttered Draco. She melted against him. “Will you come home with me?”

He heard her sharp intake of breath. He didn’t say anything, waiting her out -- he didn’t press her, nor did he move. He waited patiently for Granger to figure out whatever was going through her mind, and before long, she turned her head to whisper in his ear.

“Yeah,” said Granger. “I do.”

“Alright,” he said, closing his hand around her wrist. He rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes, swiftly apparating them away. 

\--

They had barely landed in the flat when Granger threw her arms around his neck, roughly pulling him to her and crushing their mouths together. Draco parted his lips, and she wrapped her tongue around his, sighing into him like she’d been waiting to do it all day.

And it was enough, really -- her eagerness was enough for his chest to crack open and all of his desires to begin tumbling out. He wanted so much from her he didn’t even know where to start -- he pushed her into the nearest wall, pressing his body into hers so firmly that she spread her legs to make space for him. 

Draco twisted his fingers into the hair at the back of her neck, and she slid her arms down to grip his waist, pulling them together in one smooth motion. 

She was vibrating against him, and he tugged her bottom lip with his teeth, hearing muffled sounds of pleasure echo in his ears. He wrenched his lips away from hers, breathing rapidly as he pressed their foreheads together. 

He squeezed his eyelids tighter. His mind was fogging and he was slowly losing any hold on his control. He swallowed, trying to keep himself together, but she was moving against him, pressing herself against his hips and thighs. 

He slowly slid his hand out of her hair, letting his fingers trail down the expense of her neck, stopping just above her heart. Granger’s chest was beating as hard as his. “Can I touch you?” It sounded as breathless as it had the day before.

This time, she didn’t hesitate before whispering, “Yes.” 

He fit his mouth against hers, kissing her deeply. She hummed against his lips, and he moved his hands until they were gripping her thighs. She wrapped her legs around his hips, making it easy to pull her away from the wall. 

He walked them towards the bed that had been placed in a corner of the room, thanking Merlin for fast delivery, and sat her down on the mattress. He moved to lean back, but she squeezed her thighs around him, keeping him locked.

“Don’t move,” whispered Granger. “Come closer.” 

“Wanna touch your skin, though,” he mumbled, not fully aware of what he was saying. 

Granger kissed him again before allowing him to move. Draco propped himself up just enough to take his shirt off, self-consciously holding his left arm close to his body. The Dark Mark had faded away, barely a ghost of an image over his skin, but it had been there once. He held in a breath as Granger’s eyes skimmed over it, and he breathed in easier when she didn’t linger. 

He threw the shirt somewhere behind him, watching as she dragged her eyes from his arm to gaze at his chest instead, letting it travel down the rest of his body, gulping audibly when her eyes found the trail of hair that disappeared down his pants. 

She leaned forward on the bed, swiftly taking her own shirt off. His mouth went slack, and he watched expectantly as she reached behind her back to undo the clasp of her bra. His eyes tracked her every move, inhaling sharply when she slid the straps down her arms, giving him a full view of her breasts. She laid back down, and Draco leaned over her, his eyes roaming everywhere, drinking her in. 

She was always beautiful, but it blew his mind to see her like that -- her sprawling curls forming a crown around her head, her swollen lips, her dilated pupils -- he took a mental picture, searing it into his mind. 

“Are you just going to look at me?” she whispered. “Do I have to beg you to touch me?”

He licked his lips, incapable of forming an intelligent response. Instead, he bent down to kiss the valley of her breasts. He bit into the soft skin, then turned his head and sucked her nipple into his mouth, smiling when a loud moan escaped her lips. 

He switched to her other breast, paying it the same languorous attention, and one of her hands flew between her thighs. 

“No,” he mumbled against her breast, pulling her hand away. “Be patient.”

“I’m never patient,” she grunted, and he chuckled. 

“What do you want, love?” he asked, scooting up until he could nuzzle her neck, one hand gripping the edge of her pants.

“Less talking, more touching.” she muttered.

“I can do that,” he said. “Lean forward for me?”

She did. He made quick work of pulling her pants down her legs. She used the soles of her feet to push them into the floor and his hands roamed over her knickers, pushing the fabric to the side and reaching in. He swallowed her moan with his lips, feeling his cock throb as he pushed his finger inside of her.

She clenched around his finger and gripped desperately at his shoulder, then ran her hands down the expense of his back, her nails digging in hard. He groaned, grinding his hips against the mattress to relieve some of the pressure. 

He kissed her thoroughly, using his other index finger to rub her clit. She arched her back, her chest heaving and her eyes pressed closed. “More,” she groaned, bucking her hips. 

“More?” he whispered, carefully taking his fingers out of her. He placed his fingers in his mouth and sucked. 

Granger’s eyes flew open, darkening as she watched him. 

She reached a hand to the nape of his neck and pulled him towards her, planting a kiss on the corner of his mouth. She dragged her lips down to the soft spot of his jaw, continuing down to his neck, sucking the skin into her mouth. Her hands moved to undo his belt and pop open the front of his pants, and she pushed them and his boxers down with her feet. 

She bit his jaw before kissing him hard on his mouth. He tore his mouth away from her just an inch, muttering a contraception charm before pushing her knickers down and guiding himself into her. 

She was too much for him. He stopped thinking. He could only move, hearing her moan into his ears and the quiet crunch of bedsprings beneath them. The room grew warmer and warmer.

He soared higher and higher, his thumb pressing to her clit and mimicking the motion of his hips as he dragged her along with him. 

“Don’t stop,” she moaned, digging her nails in deeper. “Faster. Please.” She instinctively squeezed her thighs together, and the extra pressure was exactly what he needed to tip over the edge. His mind went completely blank, and his heart raced in what felt like an inhumane pace. 

He stayed there, unable to open his eyes, for what felt like hours. When at last he opened them, Granger was looking at him, the back of her hand caressing his cheek. She smiled, and his chest fluttered again. 

He carefully slid out of her and laid beside her on the mattress, pulling her closer to him. He didn’t want to give her a chance to retreat -- he had her fully exposed now. He wasn’t letting her go back into hiding. 

He nuzzled against her cheek and kissed the spot below her ear. Granger shivered, and he whispered, “You okay?” She didn’t respond immediately, but scooted closer to him on the bed. “Answer me, love.”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” she finally said, then turned on her side. “Can I tell you something?”

“Uhum,” he agreed. 

Granger sighed, then pressed her hand to her eyes. 

Draco could swear his heart stopped for a beat, and his stomach turned with apprehension. She licked her lips and finally pulled her hand away, then whispered, her voice so soft he had to scoot closer to hear, “I was kind of hoping the sex would suck.” 

Draco frowned. “What?” She snickered. “Are you laughing?” he said, incredulous. Soon she was bent in two, and he watched in confusion as the pearls of laughter filled the room, her eyes watering from the force of it. “Are you mad?”

“I’m sorry,” said Granger, another burst of laughter coming out of her. Draco chewed on his bottom lip as he watched, unsure if he should laugh with her or apparate them straight to St. Mungo’s mental ward. “Merlin, I needed that.”

“You done now?” he asked when she finally subsided. She giggled, but nodded. “Care to expand on your hopes I was shite in bed?”

Granger’s face sobered, but she sighed and said, “It’d be easier, wouldn’t it? It would give us an out.”

“You want an out?” he asked in a small voice. 

“You don’t?” she said, her expression serious. “Is it bad if I don’t? Because I keep turning it over in my head, trying to make sense of this. Trying to freak myself out into running for the hills, I guess. And failing.”

Draco turned on his back and sighed, crossing his arms behind his head and staring at the ceiling, his mind running wild. He didn’t know if he wanted to tell her that he was past doubt, when she sounded so unsure. 

Granger filtered into his view, scooting closer and throwing a leg over his body. Her hair flowed around her shoulders, and her brown skin was slick with sweat. 

He wanted to put his mouth all over her again. 

“Tell me what you’re thinking, Malfoy.”

“I’m thinking you should call me by name,” he said without planning it. Granger frowned.

“You want me to call you Draco?” He nodded. “Alright then. Draco, tell me what you’re thinking.” 

He sighed, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to form words.  _ Why did she say that?  _ he thought, frustrated with himself. He was kind of terrified of telling her what he thought and sounding insane, or worse, overly attached. 

When he didn’t say anything, she started to move away. He threw out a hand and gripped her waist, stopping her.

“Granger,” he said. She stopped moving, and he took a breath. “Things are kind of mad lately, alright? Or maybe not lately, more like all the bloody time.”

“Okay--”

“I’m kind of good at avoiding shite, it’s easier.” He groaned. “Why do you want me to speak, again?”

“Because I kind of need it,” said Granger. She sounded insecure, and he didn’t want her to sound like that, not ever, so he yelled at himself to grow a pair and  _ speak _ .

“Alright, yeah,” he hummed. “So, things are mad. And people are daft, and I’m pissed off all the bloody time. And when you’re around, I’m not.”

“Okay.”

“Listen, Granger, I don’t know what you’re expecting me to say, because I’m definitely not the bloke to whisper sweet nothings into your ear, mostly because that shite doesn’t mean anything. But the matter of things is kind of simple to me.”

“Is it?” asked Granger, tone flat. 

“Sure,” he nodded, his hand travelling up and down the side of her body. “I don’t think it’d matter much if the sex was shite at first, to be honest with you. I’d just want to try again, and again, until we got better at it.” 

“And we would, because we’re both perfectionists,” she said. 

“And because I kind of just want to be around you, all the bloody time. And I don’t deny myself what I want, so I’m doing my best to do exactly that. It’s quite simple.” said Draco, hoping it was enough for her, knowing he’d try harder if it wasn’t.

But Granger gave him his favorite smile -- the one that made her eyes turn into half moons. His heart threatened to leap out of his body and straight into her hands. 

He pulled her face towards him and crushed their lips together again, hoping she would stay exactly where she was. 

Hoping she knew that she was exactly where he needed her.

_ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Explicit Sexual Content (if you mind, it's safe to read until "He rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes, swiftly apparating them away," without missing anything super relevant to plot)
> 
> -  
> Hello lovely beings!!!!!!! I'm so excited to bring this chapter to you. It's major for Hermione and Draco's relationship, so I hope you enjoyed this sweetness. I promise more subplot stuff coming soon too :)
> 
> Important schedule info: my beta and I are working on a different pace because life is busy, so I'll be updating once a week from now on (I began updating twice a week), EVERY FRIDAY unless something major happens (like my power going out or something lol)
> 
> Thank you so much for all the comments, I write almost every evening, so I always come back to them for that extra jolt of motivation when I'm stuck in a scene or when my insecurities get to me. Every single one matters. Let me know what you think of this one :) I'm also always available at https://masterofinfinities.tumblr.com/


	18. Where You Can See Right Through

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> props to the best beta @jeparlepasfrancais for amazing work on this chapter, as always. in this one we have: mild descriptions of panic attacks, uncomfortable friendships, overbearing mothers and building homes away from home;

" **There are so many things I'm not allowed to tell you** (...) **_There's a part in the movie where you can see right through the acting_** , where you can tell that I'm about to burst into tears, right before I burst into tears and flee to the slimy moonlit riverbed canopied with devastated clouds." Dirty Valentine, Richard Siken

* * *

“I’m sorry, boy,” said Hermione to Crookshanks, cradling him in her arms. She dropped her purse on the floor by her bed and laid the cat on the mattress, flopping beside him, belly down. He purred angrily, and she felt a twinge of guilt for having neglected him the past few days. She scratched the top of his furry head and waited for him to calm down. 

Upon arriving home, Hermione had given Crookshanks one of the chewy treats she kept hidden for special occasions. The cat had eaten eagerly for half a minute, then proceeded to growl at her, as if suddenly remembering he was cross. She snickered, thinking that he and Malfoy were eerily similar -- petulant, affection-starved and a little too much on the best of days. 

Once Crookshanks had tired himself out, she left him on the bed and went to shower, stepping into the bathroom, turning the knob, and stepping under the spray. Hermione took her time, lingering in places she didn’t usually pay much attention to -- the spot just below her ears, the stretch marks around her thighs, and the patch of skin under her breasts. Places Malfoy had touched. If she closed her eyes, she could feel the faint memory of his hands.

Every bit of hesitation had flown straight out of the window. _Something that felt so right couldn’t possibly be wrong_ , she reasoned with herself. _Well, let’s hope._

As if in a trance, Hermione turned off the shower and got dressed in a comfortable combo of sweatpants and a jumper. Mind elsewhere, she ran a brush through her wet hair, existing in an unfamiliar state of serenity. 

The knock on the door shattered her peace like a glass bowl falling to the floor. 

Hermione set the brush on top of her dresser and walked towards the door, gingerly pulling it open just an inch -- when she saw Harry’s cumbersome expression, she felt absolutely ridiculous and opened the door all the way. 

“Hello,” said Hermione in a casual voice. Harry looked out of place, his hands hidden inside his pockets, eyes downcast. “Harry?”

“Hi,” he said, finally looking up at her. There was uncertainty in his eyes. Instinctively, Hermione understood that he wasn’t there to confront her about working for the MRC.

 _Should I tell him?_ she asked herself, inhaling sharply. _Yes, just do it._

“Harry--”

“Hermione--”

She sighed. “Do you want to come in?”

“No, that’s okay, I’m just dropping by to invite you to the Burrow,” he said. “I’m leaving in a few. It’s Sunday, remember?”

Hermione was startled to realize that she had not, in fact, known it was Sunday. She let go of her hold on the door and ran her hand through her damp curls, running through the past few days -- there was the meeting on Friday, then she spent the rest of the day and night with Malfoy. She had tried to leave the next morning, but he asked her to stay and help him organize the new furniture. Somehow not offended by the transparency of his excuse, Hermione spent half the afternoon arguing with him about where to put the sofa (she thought positioning it in front of the windows would block light into the room, he disagreed), then setting up shelves and levitating the bed up to the second level of the flat. Then Malfoy left her alone for thirty minutes to find them food, and Hermione rearranged everything she thought she could get away with. He didn’t even notice. And spending the night under him again just made the most sense. 

She hadn’t noticed it was a Sunday.

“Ah, right,” said Hermione, realizing her silence had made the air between them even more uncomfortable. “Celebratory lunch with your soon to be in-laws?” 

Harry smiled. “Yes, I’m guessing Molly will last half an hour before begging Ginny to try on her wedding dress. She’s been not-so-subtly hinting at getting it refitted.”

Hermione snickered, “I _know_. Ginny showed it to me when we went to look at wedding magazines last week,” She shook her head with mirth. “I don’t really think a ball gown with pink tulle and a turtle neck is Ginny’s style.”

“Ginny would rather elope than wear it,” he said, his body finally loosening up. “And I’ve never seen someone so excited about a wedding before. It’s all she talks about.”

“I’m happy for you both, Harry,” she said. “Ginny was shining, when I saw her. You are too.”

Harry nodded, then his face reddened, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before she asked you to be her maid of honor, I was planning to, but--”

“Things got busy?” asked Hermione, knowing she was giving him an out. She was more bothered that Harry didn’t realize she’d actually learned about his marriage from _The Daily Prophet_ first. “I get it,” she said, because he was her friend, and she hadn’t been honest with him either. 

“Exactly,” said Harry. “And about the Ron thing--”

“Harry,” she interrupted. “Let’s not, yeah?”

“Alright. Well, I’m going to the Burrow then,” he sighed. “You know you’re welcome to come, right? You’re always welcome.”

Hermione pursued her lips, considering it. Ginny _had_ asked her to be her maid of honor, and she guessed that the position came with more responsibilities than she could guess at. Talking to Ginny wouldn’t be the worst idea. And, more than that, she couldn’t deny that she felt guilty for not coming out and just telling Harry about her job. Maybe telling everybody about the MRC would help diffuse Molly’s attention -- _it’d be something._

When Harry saw her hesitate, he jumped on the opportunity, “Come on, it’ll be fun. And you don’t have to talk about Ron to me, but maybe you should talk to him in person. He’s been talking about you more than ever lately. He really wants to work things out.”

His words felt like he’d dumped a bucket of freezing water on top of her head. Hermione steeled herself and said, “I bet. But thinking about it, I probably shouldn’t go. I actually have a bunch of work to do.”

Hermione ignored the way her heart tightened when his face fell. Inside her mind were whispers of, _why do you make yourself uncomfortable for his sake, you know he’s not going to do the same._ She allowed the words to take root inside of her and planted her feet firmly into the ground. She had told him about Ron, and he hadn’t listened. That was it. 

“Are you sure, Hermione? Because--”

“I’m sure,” she said in a firm voice, keeping her gaze steady.

It felt like getting a piece of herself back.

_

A couple of days later, Hermione was walking down the hallways of the MRC with her nose buried in a large stack of parchments. She had crafted a completely believable excuse to ask Cartwell for access to reports about previously released rehab attendees, and the woman hadn’t suspected anything other than a desire to learn more about the work that had already been done.

What Hermione really wanted was to find out why people like Goyle and the Carrow twins had been released before Theo, or even Pansy. The dots weren’t connecting in Hermione’s head, and the more she read, the more she figured they weren’t supposed to -- too many aspects of the program simply didn’t make sense. 

Hermione was about to turn the corner towards the staff lounge when she felt a hand close around her wrist and pull her into a hallway. 

Her mind instantly flashed to clusters of lights, flashing wands, and bodies falling all around her, motionless like dolls being pushed from a shelf. Instinctively, she yanked her arm away, sliding down the wall to the floor, scrunching into herself, a phantom burning on her arm making her dig her nails into her palms. 

“Granger,” said a voice sounding like the bottom of a well. “Fuck, I’m sorry. Bloody hell.” 

She hadn’t even realized she had closed her eyes. _Night, gods, unbowed, unafraid, captain_. She heard someone slide down the wall next to her. And then, a hand massaging her shoulder. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Hermione struggled to inhale, breathing in his familiar smell, letting it wash over her. She felt her heartbeat slow. “Granger?”

 _Night, gods, unbowed, unafraid, captain_. The burning on her arm was becoming less like lava and more like faint flashes of heat. 

She slowly opened her eyes, still breathing through her mouth, and met Malfoy’s gaze. His face was even paler than usual, and his eyes were full of concern. She reached a hand to grip the fabric of his shirt. 

“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” said Hermione in a shaky voice. “Don’t grab me from behind, don’t pull me without making your presence known.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, sounding frightened, “you know I didn’t mean to scare you, right? I called your name, but you were distracted--” 

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, more firmly. “Don’t touch me without identifying yourself. I can’t-- I can’t handle it,” she finished, taking a deep breath. “Please just don’t.”

“Okay, okay, I promise I won’t,” he said quickly. “Believe me Hermione, I’m so sorry--”

“I know,” said Hermione, forcing herself to stand up. 

“You were starting to look exactly like that day in the supply room--”

“Draco,” she muttered, “I’m better now, crisis averted. What are you doing here? We don’t have a meeting today.”

“Granger, are you sure you’re okay?” he insisted, looking up at her. Hermione sighed. She had somehow forgotten how easy it was to be triggered. 

“I’m fine. I promise,” she said, offering him a hand. He took it, pulling himself up. “What are you doing here?”

Malfoy didn’t quite look convinced. He bent down to press a kiss into her hair, then said, “I went with Theo to an apothecary near here. Apparently he needed more unicorn horn for a stamina enhancing potion,” he said with exaggerated disgust. “Obviously, I didn’t know that when I agreed to go. Theo’s a strange one, frankly.”

Hermione chuckled, trying to picture Malfoy trailing after Theo while he rambled on about aphrodisiacs. “Who knew you were such a prude.”

“Can you imagine who he’d shag that he’d need a potion for? They’re all over forty, he better be careful he doesn’t break any hips.”

Hermione actually laughed. “There’s nothing wrong with an age gap,” she teased. “How old is Zeta again?”

“You know, Granger. I thought a bit about it, and I think you’re using Zeta to deflect.”

“Excuse me?” said Hermione, wrinkling her nose in confusion. 

“From our own gap. You’re older than me, after all.”

“Oh please,” said Hermione, rolling her eyes. “We’re less than a year apart, I’m not a bloody cougar.” 

“There's nothing wrong with an age gap,” he mocked. 

Malfoy pulled her in for a sloppy kiss, almost making her forget exactly where they were. 

“Draco, we’re in the middle of the MRC. This already looks weird without you trying to snog me.”

“I warded the hallway as soon as we stepped into it, Granger, I’m not stupid. Every person thinking of turning the corner is suddenly overcome by an uncontrollable desire to get a scone from the cafeteria.” 

“Oh,” said Hermione, looking over his shoulder and down the hallway. She hadn’t even noticed no one had passed by. “Those scones are terrible. But that’s smart of you.”

“I’m just going to ignore the shock in your voice,” he said, nose in the air. “It says more about your lack of perception rather than my lack of intelligence.”

“Sure it does,” said Hermione, rolling her eyes. “Well, nice of you to drop by, but I have work to do.”

Hermione bent down and grabbed her files, reorganizing them in her arms. Before she could leave, Malfoy stepped in front of her. “It’s almost lunch time.”

“So?”

“So let’s go back to the flat. I’ll tell Minzy to fix us something.”

“I brought a tuna sandwich from home,” said Hermione, even as the thought of it made it unappealing. “I wouldn’t want to inconvenience your elf.”

“Ah, of course, a house elf that _loves_ to serve would certainly be inconvenienced by doing her job,” chirped Malfoy. “My healthy elf, who lives in dignified conditions, of course,” he added. Hermione fought off the urge to roll her eyes again. “Come on. I know you want to.”

“You don’t know what I want,” snapped Hermione. She let out an exasperated sigh when Malfoy instantly assumed a puppy-dog face. “Draco,” she said patiently, hugging her files to her chest, “you can’t come here and expect me to drop what I’m doing to hang out with you. This is my workplace, and I take my work seriously.”

He pursued his lips, pouting like a petulant child. “Well, if you don’t want to.”

“That’s not what I said at all,” she said. “I’m just telling you to keep what I just said in mind before pulling me into hallways and trying to snog me. I could be in serious trouble if someone saw us, and I can’t just give you attention whenever you feel like it.”

Hermione studied the emotions passing over his face. She held her breath, half expecting him to argue with her. 

Surprisingly, he looked down at his shoes, rubbing his neck in an unexpected display of humility. “Alright, Granger,” he said, lifting his gaze. “I’m a bit of a git sometimes, aren’t I?”

She smiled. “You have your moments,” said Hermione, watching his expression soften, as if to say, _I’m trying._ “If you want to, I’ll let you feed me lunch, alright? I need to grab my purse from the staff lounge, though. I’ll meet you by the fireplaces.”

Malfoy frowned. “I already told you that I don’t wait around for anyone,” he said in a snooty voice. “How ridiculous would I look?”

“Perish the thought,” she chuckled, starting to make her way down the hallway, Malfoy falling into step beside her. “I can’t think of anything more degrading.”

She noticed the attention they were gathering from the staff, who always seemed to be dawdling about in the corridors, so she quickened her pace, falling a couple of steps in front of him. Malfoy was leisurely strutting around like they were back in Italy, and Hermione almost regretted not having insisted he waited by the fireplaces. 

When they reached the lounge’s door, Malfoy snickered from behind her.

“What?” asked Hermione, turning around to catch his amused expression.

“I never saw that poster before,” he said, pointing to the moving cartoon of Harry, Ron and Hermione giving a thumbs up. It’d become such a fixture she had stopped noticing it. “The MRC is Golden Trio approved? What a feat. I bet Hughman wetted his trousers when he first met you.”

“He still hasn’t asked me for an actual photo, so I’m counting that as a win,” said Hermione. “Draco, wait here, alright? I’ll be right back.”

He ignored her. “How come the Weasel manages to look even more ridiculous in cartoons than he does in real life? He looks like a red-headed doxy. I need to show this to Theo.” Hermione sighed, then started pushing open the door.

She was stopped by the sound of her name being hollered. _Oh, no,_ she thought, immediately recognizing the voice. 

“Ah, fuck,” muttered Malfoy. “I’ve summoned him.” 

“Hermione!” 

She spun around, eyes wide, watching with dread as a red-faced Ron Weasley stomped his way over to her. She didn’t look over at Malfoy, but she could almost feel him stiffen beside her, tension filtering into the air with almost palpable force. 

“Ron,” she exclaimed in greeting, nervous laughter escaping her lips. He stopped in front of her, looking from her to Malfoy with confusion. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you,” he said, shooting Malfoy a pointed glance. “What’s _he_ doing here?”

“None of your bloody business, Weasley,” snapped Malfoy. Hermione sighed. 

“Ah,” said Ron, like it had just occurred to him. “You’re part of that low-life program, aren’t you?”

“Ron--”

“We need to talk to Harry about getting some Aurors down here,” he told Hermione, ignoring Draco’s sneer. “You don’t know how dangerous it is with all these Death Eaters in the same building. I’d volunteer. Make sure he keeps his ugly mug far out of your sight.”

Malfoy chuckled humorlessly. “Are you implying Granger needs you to keep an eye on her, Weasel? Could you even do that? I was under the impression you’d become an Auror from riding Harry’s dick.”

Ron turned even redder, reaching into his robes for his wand. Hermione shot him the angriest look she could muster. He froze in place. 

“You’re a member of _law enforcement_ ,” she spat. “Control yourself. And you,” she said to Malfoy, “I can take care of myself, thanks.” 

Malfoy looked hurt, and Hermione willed him to remember she couldn’t be friendly with him in front of Ron.

“Now, why what are you here?” she asked Ron, watching as he fumbled with embarrassment. 

“I thought we could go get lunch,” said Ron, looking at her hopefully. Malfoy snickered. Ron whirled around furiously. “Why the bloody hell are you still here, ferret?”

“Granger’s going to--”

“Malfoy was just leaving,” interrupted Hermione.

“I was?” he asked, sounding irritated. She shot him a pointed glance, and his face cleared. “Yes. I was, indeed.”

“We’ll finish discussing this matter later,” she said, trying not to sound too enthused about it. Meaning, _I’ll find you later_. 

Malfoy nodded imperceptibly, like he understood. “You know where to find me,” he said, then scowled at Weasley. “Choke on your food, Weasel.”

“Fuck you.” 

Hermione let out another exasperated sigh. She waited for Malfoy to disappear down the corner, then turned to Ron, moving the files in front of her like a shield. “I shouldn’t go to lunch with you, after the scene you caused.”

“I’m sorry, Hermione,” he said, voice low. He rubbed a hand on his neck. “I was just surprised by seeing you talking to him. That Death Eater scum just acts like he owns everything, it pisses me off.”

“Ron, it’s for work, I don’t want to talk to him,” said Hermione. “And you making a big deal out of it just makes it more miserable.” 

“I know. I already said I’m sorry, Hermione, what more do you want?” said Ron grudgingly. “What does talking to him have to do with your work anyway?”

Hermione tapped her foot nervously. “I help Cartwell with the rehab program,” she said, looking at the floor. 

“What?” he squeaked. “That’s absurd.”

“It’s part of my job,” rushed Hermione. “Come on, I know that you didn’t come here to talk to me about work. Let me grab my purse and we can go have lunch, alright?” 

Before he could answer, Hermione turned away from him and pushed open the door to the staff lounge. She ignored the curious looks directed her way and scurried towards the desk where she had left her things. She grabbed her purse and threw the files, along with a few scattered quills, inside of it. 

As she walked back into the hallway to find Ron, Hermione felt her head start to throb. By the end of the day, she’d have a full fledged migraine. 

“There’s a café just down the street, we can eat there,” said Hermione. Ron nodded, and they made their way out of the MRC’s building in silence. 

At the café, they placed their order and sat at a small table near the loos, the furthest they could get from the general view of the restaurant’s clientele. Ron fidgeted in his chair, looking like he was working up to whatever he was going to say. With him in front of her, she noticed he looked better. His hair looked washed, and his Auror uniform was pressed and free of wrinkles -- a stark difference from how he’d been the last time she had seen him. 

“How have you been, Hermione?” he finally asked in a soft voice. “It’s been a while.”

Hermione grabbed the salt shaker and began to fiddle with it. “I’m good,” she said, turning the salt shaker over in her hands. When she thought about it, she realized it was the truth. “How about you, Ron?”

“Same,” he nodded. “Could be better, though. I’ve been thinking about the last time we talked.”

“Yeah?” she said, her stomach falling with dread. 

“I didn’t mean to come off so strongly,” he started. “My head was all over the place, really, you understand, don’t you?” 

Hermione tapped the shaker, watching salt pour out onto the table. She waved a hand to clean it, stalling until she could find an appropriate response. 

“Sure,” she said at last, sounding far away. 

“Sure?” started Ron, before they were interrupted by their food being levitated to the table. Hermione waited for Ron to dig into his soup before changing the subject. “How have things been at the DMLE?”

“Oh, they’ve been great,” he said enthusiastically, ripping off a piece of bread and popping it into his mouth. He slurped a spoonful of soup, gulping audibly, like in a cartoon. Hermione grimaced. Some things never changed. “It’s been better since Harry took over, everyone’s been chuffed. I’ve stopped getting those rubbish missions too. Even managed to spend a couple of days with Charlie back in Romania last week.”

“That’s nice,” said Hermione, eating her soup at normal pace. “The food isn’t going to disappear, Ron. You have splashes of tomato all over your face.” 

“I’m hungry,” he said, mouth opened as he chewed. “Y’know, we could get you a job at the Ministry, even at the DMLE. This way we could all spend more time together, and you won’t have to see Malfoy’s ugly mug all the time.”

“I’m not interested in working at the DMLE, Ron,” said Hermione. “I told you that the first ten times you brought it up.” 

“I thought things changed,” he shrugged. “Back then you were still hiding away at Hogwarts, I figured now you were feeling a little better.”

“I was helping _rebuild the school_ ,” said Hermione. Leaving for Hogwarts had been a sore spot between them for years; he usually didn’t bring it up so casually. She knew that Ron blamed her for stopping their relationship before it could properly get off the ground. 

They had pushed and pulled each other apart for so many years. Back then, she hadn’t thought that those months would be enough to bury them.

“It wasn’t just about that, though, was it?” 

“Not, it wasn’t,” she agreed. “But it wasn’t about what you think it was, either,” she sighed. Leaving for Hogwarts had also been about _her_ , _her_ needing to rebuild. Even if it had taken her longer than he had initially predicted. 

And then, while she was there, she had to pretend she wasn’t upset by Ron sleeping with virtually every woman who gave him half a glance. Trying to hurt her. The distance wasn’t the problem, she didn’t think. It was the resentment that did them in. He never understood that she had left to find herself, not to lose him. 

Eventually, she didn’t have to pretend any more. 

Ron shook his head and mumbled something under his breath. The lack of understanding between them made Hermione feel claustrophobic. 

He exhaled, avoiding her eyes.“Do you not want to work at the DMLE because you’re cross with Harry? 

Hermione’s mind needed a second to reboot after the abrupt change of subject. She bit her lips, then said, “Is that what Harry told you?”

“Not exactly,” he shrugged, cleaning his fingers with a paper napkin. “It’s not hard to notice things have been weird. So, are you cross with him?”

“We’ve had a couple misunderstandings,” said Hermione, trying to sound neutral. She knew pretty well that Ron would report to Harry everything she said about him. “Why do you ask?”

“Hell, Hermione, maybe because my best friends aren’t even acting like themselves, any more? When was the last time we all hung out together? Just the three us?” said Ron angrily. When she didn’t say anything in response, he threw his hands up. “You don’t even remember, do you? Well, I do. It was before you went to Australia, over a year ago.”

“You’ve been busy too, Ron.”

“Not for you,” he said in a soft voice, eyes searing into her. Hermione shifted uncomfortably. “Never for you, Hermione.”

Hermione fumbled with what to say, wanting desperately for the heavy atmosphere around them to dissipate. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Ron, I really don’t.”

“The past is in the past,” he shrugged, “but I want to change things. Ginny told you about the engagement party they’re throwing next week, right?”

Hermione frowned, taken aback by the way he kept shifting the direction of the conversation. “Yes, she owled me yesterday,” she said. “Apparently it’s my duty as maid of honor to make sure everything runs smoothly.”

“But you’ll still have some time for yourself,” said Ron. “So I thought it’d be an opportunity.”

“Opportunity for what?”

“For us,” he continued, looking hopeful. “The old crew from Hogwarts will be there. We can all have fun together.”

“I think that’s bound to happen,” said Hermione, lifting her glass of juice to her mouth to hide her face, “since we’ll all be there.”

“Yeah, sure, but I thought it’d be nice if we went together.”

“Like I said, I’m going to be running around helping Ginny. She’s already stressed enough as it is, I don’t know how much free time I’ll actually have.”

“Come on, Hermione,” he insisted, leaning forward in his chair. “You’ll do me a huge favor if you go with me. I won’t have to bring a poor bird to be harassed by my mother.”

Hermione scoffed. “So just go by yourself.”

“And what fun would that be?”

“Ron--” started Hermione, eager for the conversation to be over. “You know we’re friends, right?” 

“Of course we are.”

“And if I go with you,” she said, searching his eyes for understanding, “we’ll go as friends, right? Just friends?” Ron licked his lips, meeting her steady gaze. 

“Yeah,” he nodded, sounding less confident than he wanted to. “We’ll go as friends.”

_

Draco was quietly seething as he sat by the Manor’s kitchen island. Around him, the kitchen bustled with activity -- the house elves were running themselves haggard, preparing the menu for his mother’s dinner party that evening, cleaning a never-ending stack of dirty dishes, and shooting him annoyed glances when they thought he wasn’t looking. They clearly wanted him out of the way. Ignoring them, Draco scowled and ate from an endlessly-refilling bowl of profiteroles.

Unfortunately for them, the kitchen was about the only place in the entire house that he could count on not being found by his mother. 

He couldn’t believe Granger had ditched him for Weasley, of all people. Even he felt awkwardness between them was almost palpable, and her discomfort around the git made Draco feel uncomfortable, in turn. He couldn’t quite understand the reasoning behind putting up with someone like that, especially for the sake of a crumbling old friendship. 

She hadn’t even told Weasley about her real job. It wasn’t a surprise, necessarily, but it made Draco resentful that she’d still chosen to go with him. _Weasley doesn’t know basic information about her life_ , he thought bitterly, _not like I do_.

“Master,” said Minzy, appearing out of thin air. Her eyes were wide like saucers, and he immediately knew that she’d had an encounter with his mother. “Mistress told Minzy to give you this, Mistress insisted that you read it immediately.” Draco frowned at the slight shake of her voice, but grabbed the magazine from her outstretched hand. 

“Thank you, Minzy,” he said, making sure he spoke softly. 

“Would Master like some more profiteroles?”

“No,” said Draco, narrowing his eyes. “Are you the one who’s been refilling this bowl?”

Minzy sheepishly lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Master did not seem bothered by it. Master ate three full bowls. Minzy thought the Master needed it.”

“It’s okay, Minzy, I’m not upset. But no more, alright?” said Draco. “And I didn’t eat _three_ bowls,” he mumbled under his breath.

Minzy looked at him suspiciously. “May Minzy go?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, waving his hand. He stared for a beat at the space she disappeared from, feeling even more pathetic. Granger had made him look so pitiful that his own elf was feeling sorry for him. 

Draco lifted the issue of _Witch Weekly_ to eye level, his surliness only intensifying as he opened the magazine and found the page his mother had marked. 

The two pages spread was illustrated by the overused photo of Draco and Daphne at the St. Mungo’s ball. They were stepping down the Victorian staircase and into the main room, Daphne with her arm curled around Draco’s. The photographer had captured the exact moment when she had tilted her face towards his, her mouth lifting in a demure smile. Draco remembered spending most of the ball calculating each of their movements and interactions, all to keep up with the sham of courting her. Now, the sight of it nauseated him -- he felt angry for having to do it, in the first place. 

The photo was accompanied by an article filled with speculation about their time in school and fabricated anecdotes about years of mutual pining. The piece ended with comments from _close friends_ , who claimed they couldn’t be more in love with each other. 

His eyes grew wide when he read how he had spent over ten thousand galleons in Italian luxury furniture for a _love nest_ with Daphne. Draco quickly called for Minzy, who appeared by his side before he had finished saying her name. 

“Minzy, where’s my mother?”

“Mistress is at the ballroom on the third floor, Master,” said the elf, looking concerned.

Draco muttered a barely audible thank you and stood up, crumpling the magazine in his fingers. He marched to the ballroom, where he found his mother trying different table settings. With each swish of her wand, the forks and knives rearranged themselves in front of her, like obedient toys. 

She didn’t acknowledge him immediately, and Draco closed his eyes and mentally counted to three, trying to get a handle on his temper.

“Mother?” he said finally. 

Narcissa turned and smiled, walking to him and pulling his face to plant a kiss on each cheek. “Draco, dear. Did that pitiful elf of yours give you that magazine?”

“ _Minzy_ did,” he said, lifting his hand to show it to her. “Mother, how does the _Witch Weekly_ know where I’ve been spending my money?”

“I told them, of course,” said Narcissa. Draco set his mouth in a hard line. “They owled me yesterday morning with a draft of the article, as a courtesy. It was to be expected, given how much money this family has given that magazine over the years. So I wrote them back adding some interesting information.”

“You thought it was okay to tell them fabricated stories about my life?” asked Draco, taken aback by her casual tone. “Mother, this a step over the line.”

His mother smoothed her face into a blank expression, and Draco felt his stomach drop. “Fabricated?” said Narcissa, sounding confused. “I didn’t lie to them, Draco. I don’t know why you look so upset. You didn’t think I would find out that you went to Zeta’s shop with Daphne?”

“Are you spying on me?”

“Of course not,” she said, her hand flying to her chest with offense. “I went to _La Farfalla Concept_ myself over the weekend to select furniture for the dinner party. Zeta was kind enough to mention you had spent a couple hours there with your girlfriend, purchasing enough furniture to fill an entire house,” She shook her head. “It was embarrassing that she knew before I did, Draco.” 

Draco’s heart pounded in his chest. He wasn’t sure whether his mother was being purposely obtuse, or if Zeta simply hadn’t mentioned the name of the person he had been there with. He was overwhelmed with anger -- of being found out, of having his privacy invaded -- and fear. 

It hadn’t taken him long to realize that it hadn’t been the smartest move to take Granger there. But by the time it had dawned on him, he hadn’t wanted to ruin the peaceful weekend they’d been enjoying together. He didn’t think that Zeta would owl his mother to tattle on him -- but he hadn’t counted on Zeta, most likely innocently, mentioning the visit to her in person. 

“You still shouldn’t have told _Witch Weekly_ about my private life,” protested Draco. 

“Their original draft was full of speculations, Draco. It pointed out that you had hardly been seen together as of late, and wondered if the relationship had already lost its spark. I didn’t want you or poor Daphne to see an article about how you’d already lost interest in her,” she argued. “Of course, I had wondered that myself. But since you’ve rarely been at home lately, I’ve assumed you had been holed up with her somewhere. Still, I must ask why you felt the need to buy a house, when you have an entire wing of the Manor to yourself.”

Draco fumbled with what to say, his mind reeling. “Mother--”

“I’m not unhappy with you, my son,” she smiled. “You must have used your own money, since I didn’t receive a receipt from Gringotts. I was simply curious. You know that Daphne is welcome here, and you’ll both be expected to live here when you get married.”

“Can we not talk about this? I have absolutely no plan to marry Daphne,” said Draco. His mother gave him a skeptical glance. “The fact is that I don’t feel comfortable that you’re willingly feeding those vultures information about my life.”

“Honestly, Draco,” said Narcissa, sounding genuinely confused. “You know perfectly well that we work with the media when it benefits us, as it did here. I’m proud of you for taking this courtship so seriously, and so is your father.”

“You’re missing the point, mother.”

“Am I?” she asked. She lifted a hand towards his face, a crease forming between her brows as her finger rubbed over the stubble in his jaw. “I don’t know where you’re getting these silly ideas in your head, dear. This is how it has always been in our family. You’ve never questioned it before.” 

Her tone was effective in making Draco feel like a child. He opened his mouth to argue, but he couldn’t think of anything that would get through her -- she was right, it was business as usual for the Malfoys. Every pureblood family that fancied themselves respectable played along with the media when it suited them. If it were an ordinary courtship, his mother’s intrusive behavior wouldn’t have fazed him.

But it _wasn’t_ . Draco had gone to _La Farfalla Concept_ to furnish a flat where he could hide away with Hermione Granger. There was nothing ordinary about the situation, and he was starting to realize that the deeper he got in it, the more of a tangled mess it all became.

“I’d still appreciate it if you talked it over with me first, though,” he said, knowing he sounded weak. She lowered her hand, her eyes scrutinizing him. Draco shifted uncomfortably, feeling that she’d figure it all out, if she stared at him for too long. 

“That’s reasonable,” conceded Narcissa. “Since you’re here, there’s something else I’d like to talk to you about.”

“Yes?” asked Draco, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“I’ve been talking to Stewart--”

“I already told you that I’m Stewart’s primary contact in this family.”

“Perhaps in normal circumstances, but you’ve repeatedly refused to listen that your father is unwell,” said Narcissa. Draco stiffened. “I’m not interested in arguing with you again, Draco. But as your father’s wife, I will be making the decisions regarding this matter.”

“And what decisions would those be?” said Draco with a mirthless laugh. “Because I’m only following the diagnostic given by a certified healer, mother. If I believed father was sick--”

“Your father _is_ sick,” she interrupted. “He fainted in his cell last week, for the second time.”

“And no one thought to inform me of this?” exclaimed Draco.

“You’ve barely been home,” said Narcissa. “And considering that you've been focusing on your relationship with Daphne, I’m not upset about your absence. Nor is your father. I’m taking care of him. I’m letting you know because it’s important that we maintain an united front.”

“What are you going to do?” he asked, the words sticking in his throat. 

“Stewart and I have been discussing opportunities to reduce his sentence to house-arrest,” she said smoothly. “I would prefer him here, rather than Azkaban.”

“That’d be possible?” said Draco, his stomach turning at the idea. 

“It may be, if we play our cards right,” said Narcissa. “If I understand correctly, the Wizengamot is about to undergo some significant changes. That’s a good sign for us.”

“Are you talking about pureblood families reclaiming their chairs?” said Draco. “I thought that was a rumor.”

“Nothing is settled,” said Narcissa, sounding grave. “Subtlety is crucial with organizations like the Wizengamot and Ministry, but things may take a turn for the better. Which is why it’s imperative that you continue investing in your relationship with Daphne.”

“What does me dating Daphne have to do with anything?” 

“Let your mother worry about that, Draco,” she said dismissively. “Now, unless you have an interest in helping me turn this ballroom into a casinha in Portugal, I would suggest you go. The ladies are arriving in less than two hours.”

Draco swallowed as his mother turned her back to him, feeling paralyzed. 

“And dear,” she said over her shoulder. “You look so handsome when you’re clean-shaven.”

_

When she stepped out of the fireplace later that evening, Hermione was surprised to find Malfoy’s flat empty. She had taken her time getting ready before arriving, but she had thought that he would wait for her. She’d simply assumed he’d be there. 

As she looked around, Hermione was hit by both concern and confusion. She didn't think that Malfoy had been upset over their encounter, she was sure he had caught onto the meaning behind her words.

She pursued her lips and pondered -- if she went back to her own flat, Malfoy might show up and think she’d bailed on him for the second time that day. 

Her mind made up, Hermione took off her shoes and climbed the stairs to the second level of the flat, which they had turned into one large bedroom. She took out a book from her purse and settled into Malfoy's expensive sheets to wait. It was hard to fully concentrate on the words, her heart growing heavier with each minute that passed. 

The next hour felt more like two, and Hermione had given up on the book to stare up at the ceiling. Maybe she’d misread things, maybe Malfoy had been genuinely upset -- maybe he was telling her so by not showing up. 

Even as she thought it, it didn’t sound right to her. Malfoy had always been honest with her. Brutally honest, at times. He wasn’t the type of person to make her puzzle out his anger. It was the exact opposite of how she behaved, and one of the reasons why she could trust him. 

He wouldn’t disappear on her.

Hermione hugged a pillow to her chest and waited, her eyes growing heavy. She’d have to convince him to buy a radio -- music would fill the hollow silence that took over the flat when he wasn’t there to fill it with his energy. She closed her eyes and emptied her mind, sinking into the pillow and letting herself relax.

It was dark when she felt the spot beside her dip with his weight. 

“You came,” she whispered, eyes still closed. Malfoy carefully laid an arm over her body and rested his chin on her shoulder. “Took you long enough.”

“I didn’t think you’d be here,” he said, voice barely audible. Hermione opened her eyes slowly, blinking when the light momentarily blinded her. “It’s past two in the morning.”

“Why wouldn’t I wait for you, Draco?” said Hermione. He stiffened at her words, and she lifted a hand to run her fingers through his hair, satisfied when he began to relax against her again. “Want to tell me what happened?”

“Not really,” he mumbled. “Want to tell me how it went with the Weasel?”

“Ron was Ron. There’s nothing new there, not really,” said Hermione, turning onto her side to face him. Malfoy looked hollow, and his brows were furrowed. She brushed a finger to smooth the crease between his eyes. “You don’t need to talk if you don’t want to, Draco. But you always listen when I tell you things, so I’m here to listen to you, too.”

Malfoy groaned and turned flat on his back. “You always want to talk.”

“Not really,” said Hermione. “I don’t really talk to other people, but somehow you alway get me babbling my feelings to you. You only have yourself to blame.”

He gave a weak chuckle. Hermione moved to sit on his hips. Malfoy automatically placed his hands on her waist, and she bent down to brush a light kiss on his lips. “I can distract you in other ways, if that’s what you want.”

“Oh, love,” he whispered. “How could I turn down an offer like that?”

Hermione smiled and leaned down to press their lips together again. She placed a hand on his jaw, tilting his head up so she could kiss him more deeply. She breathed him in, and he responded just as eagerly. 

Malfoy looped his arm around her, holding her tightly, then rolled them over until she was on her back and he could press himself completely in the space between her thighs. Hermione moved to take his shirt off, but before she could do it, he collapsed into her, tearing his lips away to hide his face in her shoulder. 

“Okay,” said Hermione, listening to his harsh breaths. She rubbed her hand up and down his back. “It’s alright.”

“Bloody hell,” he groaned. “You must think I’m a bloody imbecile.”

“You think I don’t know that you have feelings, Draco? You’ve never fooled me.”

“Let me just pretend,” he grumbled. Hermione placed her hand under his shirt, rubbing her fingers over his bare skin. “Hermione?”

“I’m here.”

“Have you ever felt like your entire life was out of your control?” asked Draco, the hitch in his breath almost imperceptible. 

“All the time,” she said, hoping he heard the honesty in her voice. He dug his chin into her shoulder, and groaned into the pillow. “It’s okay to be frustrated.”

“I’m not frustrated,” he snapped. “I’m bloody furious.”

“About what?”

“Everything,” exclaimed Draco, his voice going up an octave. “Every time I feel peaceful, my father shows up and fucking ruins it. Whenever I get a reprieve from him, it’s not too long before he’s back somehow, making everything that much harder.”

He tore himself away from her in one abrupt move. For a second, Hermione was terrified that he’d get up and leave, but he just sat on the edge of the bed, his hands on his knees, facing away from her.

Maybe she should’ve left him alone with his anger, but it felt right to slide closer to him, to wrap her arms around his leg, to rest her forehead against his back.

“My mother’s just as bad as him, you know?” he spat. “She loves me, but her love always comes with conditions. And I keep killing myself to meet them, and I don’t know why.”

“Because she’s your mum,” said Hermione. “Of course you want to make her happy.”

“Yeah, but sometimes I just don’t know if I can,” whispered Draco. “I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore. This is why I don’t talk about my feelings, Granger.”

 _You talk about your feelings more than anyone I know_ , thought Hermione, but she chose to stay silent. If Draco wanted to delude himself into a cold persona, she didn’t have it in her to judge him -- 

They were both flawed, grappling with anything that would make it more bearable to live with the wounds that hadn’t yet begun to heal. Their scars weren’t the same, but if they tried, Hermione thought they could fit them together like the world’s most pitiful puzzle. 

But even though it would be easier, she didn’t want to do that, not really. 

There was nothing beautiful about being broken together. 

She wanted them both whole.

“I think you’re making perfect sense,” she said finally. 

He shivered, and she tightened her hold. “I just wanna sleep,” he mumbled.

“Alright, sweetheart,” said Hermione, scooting back in the bed and pulling him to lay back down with her. It didn’t take her much effort to settle them in a more comfortable position -- their arms around each other, cheek against cheek. She brushed a kiss to his jaw and closed her eyes. “Let’s just sleep.”

_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of those chapters my beta and I had to work in several times. One of the very first scenes here, Draco ends up triggering a mild panic-attack in Hermione; the thing about PTSD (and any mental illness) is that progress can look very much like one step forward, two steps back; sometimes you don't know your triggers, sometimes the people around you will trigger you without meaning to. I like the thought of writing a relationship, not just two people falling in love, so they'll go through uncomfortable motions. Draco's not a vulnerable dude, but we're seeing him opening up. 
> 
> I'm writing a portion of the story that is plot-driven, so it's always fun to look back on these chapters that are heavily about character development and the thought process behind it. 
> 
> Thank you all for always reading and giving me your lovely insights, I appreciate you and am super excited to hear your thoughts on this one !


	19. Postscript and Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> props to the best beta @jeparlepasfrancais

"This is my favorite part. It starts and ends here. The pebbles shine, the plan worked (...) Lesson number one: Be sneaky and have a plan. **But the stupid boy goes back, makes the rest of the story postscript and aftermath.** He shouldn't have gone back." Hansel, Richard Siken 

* * *

Hermione knew it’d be a long day. 

When she woke up from a night of dreamless slumber, she immediately was overtaken by a sense of dread. She couldn’t pinpoint why, but she knew something was coming. 

She tried to ignore the feeling as she fed Crookshanks and fixed herself breakfast. It came back in full force when Cartwell’s owl dropped a short, straightforward request for a meeting into her outstretched hands. It stayed with her for the rest of her routine, and only intensified when she arrived at the MRC and took a seat across from Cartwell’s desk. 

“What’s going on?” asked Hermione, anxiety turning her stomach. 

“Let’s wait for Hughman, he should be on his way,” said Cartwell, standing up from her chair and walking over to her tea set. “Maybe some chamomile tea?”

Hermione swallowed, wringing her hands together. “Should I be taking a calming draught instead?”

Cartwell chuckled. “The way things have been around here lately, I wouldn’t advise against it,” she said, filling two teacups. She handed Hermione one and took the other to her desk, taking a quiet sip. 

_Bloody hell,_ thought Hermione, watching the tea swirl around in her cup. Maybe her plan had backfired somehow -- maybe the Wizengamot had ignored her request and now Hughman was angry for having soured his relationship with them on her behalf. Or maybe Cartwell was upset that Hermione had gone over her head and spoken to Hughman directly. Maybe Hermione should’ve taken Malfoy up on his offer to get back at Rookwood by less than respectable means. Maybe she shouldn’t have left Hogwarts in the first place. 

She took a sip of her tea, scrutinizing Cartwell over the rim of her cup. Her mouth was set in a firm line, her eyes running over a parchment with forced interest. 

“If this is about Rookwood--” tried Hermione. 

“Please, Hermione, wait for the director to get here.”

Her response made the room feel even more suffocating. Hermione sagged back into her chair, forcibly tearing her gaze away from Cartwell. If she kept looking, Hermione would analyze every twitch of the healer’s face until her brain melted into a pool of stress-induced sludge. 

They remained in silence for the next ten minutes, Cartwell looking down and scribbling something on a piece of parchment, and Hermione staring at the wall behind her head with her heart steadily rising until it got stuck in her throat. 

When Hughman finally stepped through the door, Hermione suppressed the urge to stand up and pull him into a hug. 

“Miss Granger!” he said loudly, skipping forward and dropping into the chair beside hers. “I apologize for making you wait, of course, but you understand that I’m a busy man. I was just finishing a Floo call that went on for forever--” he twirled his hand with a flourish, “-- you know how those things go, of course.”

“No problem.”

“Well, Edina, shall we give Miss Granger the amazing news?” he said, turning to Cartwell, who forced a smile. “I’ll do the honors, of course.”

“Certainly,” said Cartwell.

Hermione shot her a glance, then reluctantly turned to face Hughman. “Miss Granger, I’ve told you plenty of times about your importance to the Center, of course.”

“Sure,” said Hermione, frowning at the way his voice increased in volume. 

“I’m always thinking of ways to better this center and the trajectory of my employees,” he continued, “and considering the amazing work you’ve done with Edina on the rehab program, it felt like the right time for you to progress.” In his excitement, he leaned towards Hermione, his torso hanging over the arm of his chair. Hermione leaned back and smiled tightly. “So I’m promoting you, of course.”

He grinned. Hermione looked at Cartwell from the corner of her eye, who watched the exchange with eyes full of pity. When she finally opened her mouth, her words sounded breathless.“Excuse me?” 

“A promotion just seems in order for you, Miss Granger,” said Hughman, ignoring Hermione's crestfallen expression. “We’re wasting your talents with those criminals, and after the entire ordeal with Mr. Rookwood, Edina and I have agreed it was the perfect time to rethink your place within the MRC.”

“Actually, I--” tried Cartwell, but Hughman continued as if she hadn’t spoken. 

“Going forward, your main task will be to revise reports from our different initiatives and finalize all the paperwork that’ll be sent to the Ministry,” he said, nodding eagerly. “You see, that’s a _key_ position that hasn’t ever been filled. You’ll essentially be in charge of ensuring we’re meeting all of the Ministry’s standards.”

Hermione swallowed past the lump in her throat. “You’re taking me out of the program?”

“I’m relocating your talent, Miss Granger,” he said in a patronizing tone. “It _is_ a promotion, of course.”

She was too stunned to reply immediately. She wondered if he truly believed she was fooled by his attempts to glamorize his punishment. The more he stared at her with an expectant expression, the more Hermione felt fury rise in her chest.

“Sir,” said Hermione at last, “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but this doesn’t seem like a promotion in the slightest. It seems like punishment for speaking up.”

Hughman frowned. “Of course not, Miss Granger. We’ve already spoken about your feelings regarding Mr. Rookwood. It was perfectly normal for you to be emotional about his behavior.” 

“I wasn’t _emotional_ ,” spat Hermione. “I was bringing up a reasonable concern. And I don’t think it’s the right time for me to leave my position in the program, Cartwell and I are finally making progress with them--”

“Oh, don’t you worry about it,” he said loudly, pointing at Cartwell. “Edina here is perfectly capable of continuing her work by herself.”

“I’m not implying that she isn’t--”

“She’s been doing that without your assistance since the MRC opened, Miss Granger.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “I obviously know that--”

“Then there’s no problem,” he exclaimed, standing up. Hermione’s mouth opened to protest, but he quickly rushed his words out. “Ah, of course, as promotion goes, this one comes with _actual_ benefits,” he winked at her, pulling out a rusty key out of his pocket. 

“Sir--”

He dangled the key in front of Hermione’s face like a parent presenting a child with a shiny new toy. The burning in her chest increased from warm anger to scalding ire. “You’ll finally get your own office! Isn’t that exciting?” 

When she didn’t move to take the key, he cleared his throat and placed it on Cartwell’s desk, tugging at his tie. 

“Director Hughman, I don’t care for an office.”

“Don’t be so humble, Miss Granger, you earned it,” he grinned. “Ah, the office is just down the corner. We’ve already put a plaque with your name on it, so there’s absolutely no way you’ll miss it.”

“Can we discuss this further?” she said through her teeth. 

“Unfortunately I have no more time to spare, I’ve got a Center to run!” He swiftly pushed his chair away. “Enjoy the office!”

In two long strides, he opened the door and left the office, leaving a ringing silence in his wake. Hermione gripped the arm’s leather chair, digging her nails in. “So this is his M.O, right?” she hissed. “He drops the bomb and leaves you to deal with it?”

“Pretty much,” said Cartwell, sighing. “I tried to change his mind, but when he gets an idea in his head, it’s pretty much impossible to reason with him. He still believes I’m primarily responsible for the program, so I couldn’t protest too much without giving it away.”

 _A lie always comes back to bite you in the arse,_ thought Hermione, reaching for the rusty key. She chuckled mirthlessly. “He gave me an office like a consolation prize,” said Hermione, her heart pounding inside of her chest. “I’m not fooled. I had a meeting with him in which I insisted that he talk to the Wizengamot about Rookwood, and suddenly he wants to take me out of the program?”

“I’m truly sorry, Hermione,” she said, “but I told you that it wasn’t the smartest way to handle that situation.”

“So I should’ve stayed quiet?” Hermione fired back. “Maybe I was naive to think I could’ve solved it in one conversation, but you’re telling me I should just swallow my pride and accept whatever these men try to shove down my throat?”

“I’m not the enemy, Hermione,” said Cartwell, flinching. “I’m on your side.”

 _Not when it comes down to it_ , thought Hermione, feeling scorned and alone. “And you can’t reason with him about this?” she asked, already fully aware of the answer. 

“You know that I can’t,” she sighed. “I do my best where it counts, Hermione. With the _patients_. And I assure you that you don’t have to worry about the program. I’ve taken into account what you said, and I’m going to change how I work with them going forward.”

Hermione thought about how Theo slowly started to unfold in front of her -- less likely to make a joke of every situation, more genuine when he considered her questions.

She thought about Malfoy, less argumentative and more willing to listen. About Pansy’s face faltering when she remembered Muggleborn children being tortured.

 _I did that_ , her mind protested. 

Hermione thought about feeling capable and driven for the first time since the war, and wanting to scream. 

“So that’s it?” she said quietly, feeling her eyes beginning to burn. “I go to that office, start to push paper around, and give up on the work I’ve already done?”

“I honestly don’t know what else you can do.” Her voice was low and apologetic. Hermione exhaled sharply, feeling the walls of the room closing around her. “Hermione, I’ve left some files in your new office. Look them over, it'll distract you. There’s a lot we can discuss about the PTSD patients. And I’ll keep you updated on how the program progresses, I promise.”

“Alright,” she nodded, unable to absorb the healer’s words. 

“You can even help me do some research for the meetings,” offered Cartwell. “I won’t leave you completely out of the loop.”

Hermione's instinct was to force a smile, but she reined it in before it could take shape. She wouldn’t fake reluctant acceptance. Cartwell could be uncomfortable at Hermione’s anger and disappointment. She could deal with her own willingness to bury her head in the sand.

“Did he at least tell you what’s going to happen with Rookwood?”

Cartwell hesitated for a beat, her expression turning even more sour. “The Wizengamot didn’t change its decision, Hermione. He’s still getting fined.” 

Hermione only nodded, turning away and leaving without another glance. 

She walked down the hall, stopping in front of her new office. The door had grey paint peeling off in the corners, and a copper plaque with her name in bold white letters, but no title. Hermione wondered if Hughman thought that her name was enough to carry her, or if he simply hadn’t bothered to think of a title for her fictitious new position. 

Hermione stood in front of the door for what felt like hours. She finally dragged her eyes away when she felt magic begin moving insistently inside of her. It made the hairs of her arms stand up and her fingers tingle, threatening to rip books apart and shatter glass. 

She forced it down and turned to march towards the fireplaces, her hands gripping the strap of her purse like a lifeline. Hermione was aware of the stares following her, tracking her every move, as if she was a mirage, or a ghost.

Her heartbeat felt like thunder in her chest. She felt her eyes begin to water, but she blinked it away. She wouldn’t cry there, where everyone could see. 

As she threw the floo powder beneath her feet, emerald green flames engulfing her from head to toe, the only thing looping in her mind was that she wanted to be somewhere she could _scream._

_

Draco frowned at the reflection in the large ornate mirror. He tied a final knot in his deep green tie, straightened his lapel, and smoothed the wrinkles in his suit. The formal clothes hugged his skin familiarly. 

He looked like himself in all the ways that counted. He’d gained weight, so his face was a bit fuller, his arms stronger. His hair was a few inches longer, curling around his ears, stray strands falling on his forehead no matter how many times he brushed them away. It was the best that he’d looked in awhile. But the more he stared, the more he was convinced there was something wrong. Or maybe not quite wrong, just fundamentally different. 

_You look bloody good,_ he mumbled to himself. _Relax._

He studied himself once more, trying to soften his features until he didn’t look as surly, but he couldn’t quite remove the irritated glint in his eyes. He huffed and left the bathroom, swiftly grabbing the pack of cigarettes from where he had left it sitting on top of a corner table. 

“Draco, we’re going to be late,” said Daphne, looking up from her seat on the edge of his bed. 

She looked like the embodiment of pureblooded beauty. Her dress matched the shade of Draco’s tie and was embroidered with white lillies. It was long-sleeved, with a modest neckline and demure skirt falling just above her knees, just long enough to avoid any insinuations about her propriety. Her hair was parted in the middle and pulled into a sleek ponytail, making her green eyes pop. If they stood side by side, they’d make a perfect picture.

Daphne arched a brow when she caught him staring. Draco sighed, turning away from her to light up a cigarette. He _wanted_ to be attracted to her, but his appreciation for her beauty was detached of emotion, a merely objective assessment. 

“I need to smoke,” he muttered around the cigarette, “Or you’ll have to make an excuse for your mother, because I won’t go.” 

“Fine,” she said, standing up from the bed and walking over to him. She reached out a hand and pulled the pack from his fingers, taking a cigarette and mentioning for him to light it up for her.

He exhaled from the corner of his lips, then lifted his wand to light hers. Daphne coughed after her first drag, and he smirked. “You don’t need to smoke for me.” 

“Please, I’m not smoking _for_ you. You’re driving me to, since you’re probably the surliest fake boyfriend on earth,” she grumbled. “My family isn’t that bad, you know. We’ll eat, then you’ll make conversation with my father over a bottle of firewhiskey, nothing out of the norm. I bet you had to do the same when you dated Pansy.”

“I wasn’t _pretending_ to date Pansy,” he retorted. “I’m just trying to figure how I’m going to make him believe I’m actually in love with his daughter.”

“Like it’s that hard?” said Daphne, the cigarette dangling from her fingers. “Shouldn’t take you too much effort, I’m very lovable.”

Draco snickered, glancing out of the window into the gardens. From his window on the second floor, he could see the setting sun and large expense of the grounds stretch out in front of him, charmed to sparkle with soft lights. 

Daphne _was_ lovable, thought Draco, feeling morose. In an ideal version of the universe, falling in love with her would be as easy as breathing -- it’d make perfect sense. They’d be the companions their parents taught them to yearn, even if they never felt passionate about each other.

Alas, in this version of the universe, Draco stood in front of the perfect witch, wishing she was another. One who was wrong for him in all the ways that counted.

“What’s up with you?” she asked. Draco tore his eyes away from the window, meeting her expression of concern. “You’ve been different, lately. I noticed it that day at the bar. You looked distracted.”

“Nothing is up with me, besides the usual annoyance for having to do what I don’t want,” he said, sliding up the windowsill a fraction to chuck the cigarette butt into the yard. “Aren’t we late? Let’s go.”

Daphne rolled her eyes, but stubbed her cigarette out in a coffee cup. Draco snapped the window shut. “Ah, the beauty of plain, straightforward avoidance. You give Slytherins a bad name, Draco Malfoy, we’re known for our subtlety.”

“I’m subtle when I need to be,” he fired back. “You want to apparate us there?”

“You trust me not to splinch us?”

“A leap of faith, perhaps,” said Draco, offering his arm. Daphne wrapped a delicate hand around his elbow. “Do _not_ splinch us.”

“Oh, shut your trap up,” she said, then apparated them out of the room. 

_ 

They landed in the entrance hall to the Greengrass Manor. 

Draco glanced around his surroundings. He vaguely remembered running around the grounds with Daphne and Pansy, trading cards from Chocolate Frogs and giggling as they pranked unsuspecting elves. It was before they went to Hogwarts, and boys hanging around girls became less about child’s play and more about betrothal arrangements. 

“Come on, mum and Astoria must already be in the dining room,” said Daphne, looping her arm through his. “Are you impressed by our decór?”

“Ah, yes,” said Draco in a sarcastic tone. “It’s a prerequisite for my wife. Her mother absolutely must have good taste in floor tile and uncomfortable chairs.”

“Believe it or not, but my father is the decorator in the family. He says a home has to reflect a man’s true soul.” Draco snickered, his mind instantly flashing to his flat. He doubted Douglass Greengrass would approve of his willingness to let Granger run rampant with it. “My mother takes care of the gardens and social functions.”

“The garden doesn’t need to reflect your father’s soul?” asked Draco, and Daphne shot him a look. They were walking down a long corridor, surrounded by the echo of Daphne’s heels clicking against the piasentina porcelain tiles.

“Flowers and plants are for _women_ ,” said Daphne, sounding resentful, “and looking pretty, don’t you forget.”

“ _Stand straighter, little girl,_ ” a voice hollered. “Your posture is just tragic, hasn’t your mother taught you better?” 

Draco jerked his head to see a woman yelling at them from the sole portrait hanging on the wall. She looked strikingly like Daphne, but much older and grimmer. She was red in the face, her large hat threatening to fall off as she shook her head disapprovingly at them. 

Once she noticed Draco’s gaze on her, she smoothed her expression. “Oh, what a handsome lad, this one,” she smiled at Draco, her lips twisting when she looked back at Daphne. “Do your best to keep him, will you? If you’re able to, with that disgraceful manners of yours. I should’ve pushed more classes on you when I had the chance, but you were always such an odd duckling.”

“What on earth,” muttered Draco, letting Daphne drag him away.

“That’s my grandmother, ignore her,” she said, seeming unfazed by the woman spewing criticism after her. “The old hag spent her entire life putting my sister and I down, it’s fitting that she was eternalized like that. I don’t mind her.”

 _“The audacity! I was the one who made you who you are!”_ yelled the portrait. 

Draco rolled his eyes. “I'd've _incendio-ed_ her straight to hell the first time she opened her mouth,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “I hate these demented portraits.” 

“My father insists that she means well,” she muttered. “Well-behaved witches don’t talk back to their elders, even the dead ones.” 

Before Draco could respond, they turned the corner leading to a huge dining room. Asta and Astoria stood up from their seats as soon as they came into view. 

Daphne didn’t look anything like her mother -- Asta was much tinier, for once, a good six inches shorter than her daughter -- and while Daphne had inherited her mother’s slightly slanted green eyes, they didn’t hold the same glint. Asta’s dark hair sat in a neat knot on top of her head, not a single strand out of place, and as she walked towards them, her limbs looked frail, like she were light as a feather floating above the ground.

“Oh, finally,” she muttered, her voice sounding hoarse. “Draco, it’s so nice to see you, it’s been such a long time.”

“It’s great to see you too, Mrs. Greengrass,” said Draco, bending down to press a kiss on the back of her hand. Asta’s smile grew. “As beautiful as ever.”

“You’ve always been such a charmer,” she said, then looked over her shoulder at Astoria. “You know Astoria, of course.”

“We’ve met,” nodded Draco, watching Astoria greet him with a shy peck on the cheek, a spitting image of her mother. 

The atmosphere felt expectant -- each of them was careful not to speak too loudly or step on anyone’s toes. 

It was familiar in a way that made Draco sigh inwardly with boredom, and sufficiently uncomfortable that he yearned for the evening to be over and done with.

Asta led them to the white mahogany table in the center of the room, lavishly decorated with white linen and silver plates. Asta chose the seat left of the head of the table. Astoria sat beside her, and Daphne and Draco lowered themselves into the two chairs across from them. 

“Douglass will be here in a second, he’s just wrapping up some work,” said Asta. As if on cue, a house elf wearing a blue velvet dress appeared, carrying a large tray with silver goblets embossed with the Greengrass coat of arms. The elf placed one in front of each of them, then disappeared without waiting for orders. “White is okay with you, Draco? We have some good selection of elf-made wines as well, if you’d prefer.”

“Your choice is lovely,” he said, without intention of drinking it. 

“Perfect,” she said, her gaze travelling from Draco to Daphne. “You make such a beautiful couple, I’m overjoyed by your union. I know your mother is as well, Draco.”

“She’s certainly happy.”

“And that _Witch Weekly_ article? It was such a lovely read. Although Narcissa and I agreed we must arrange to get you new photographs taken soon. You both look dashing, but it’s important to have new material.”

“Mother--” tried Daphne.

“Don’t start, Daphne. You know how it is,” said Asta, bringing the goblet to her lips. “There’s no harm in sharing your happiness with the world. Everyone is excited for your betrothal.”

“ _Mother_ ,” hissed Daphne. Draco shifted uncomfortably. “Please, don’t embarrass me in front of my boyfriend.”

“Don’t be silly, Draco knows what’s at stake here, doesn’t he?” said Asta, searching for Draco’s gaze. “You’re not leading my daughter on, correct?”

Draco cleared his throat. “Of course not,” he said, making sure his voice didn’t waver. “But Daphne and I have both agreed that we prefer to take things slow. Besides, people become tired of having something thrown in their faces all the time, don’t they?”

“Certainly,” said Daphne. “If we keep our relationship more private, people's curiosity will grow, which is always a good thing.”

“I agree,” said Astoria, turning to her mother with a sweet smile. “Don’t you remember when Edgar Rosier and Olivia Gaunt started dating a few years ago? No one could stand them, it was _so_ obvious that they had paid for their media coverage.”

“Or even the Weasleys,” added Daphne. “Didn’t one of them marry Fleur Delacour during the war? I remember, everyone complained how distasteful it was that they were being painted as these star-crossed lovers when so much more was happening.” 

“Exactly,” finished Astoria, raising a perfectly trimmed brow. “You don’t want Daphne and Draco to be seen as desperate, do you?”

Draco watched the back and forth between the sisters with mild amusement. Daphne smiled at Astoria, who gave her a subtle nod. 

“Of course not. You have a good point there, Astoria,” said Asta, having already finished her drink. “We wouldn’t want to be compared to the Weasleys. But we must find a balance.” 

“We can work with that,” said Daphne, giving Draco a sidelong glance. “Right, Draco?”

“Certainly,” he said through his teeth.

Asta seemed appeased for the moment, “That reminds me, I wanted to ask about that apartment of yours. I hadn’t heard about it prior to the article that Narcissa sent me. I hope you both know that it’s inappropriate to purchase a place together before we officially settle an engagement.”

Draco was quick to speak. “That was a misunderstanding,” he said, nudging Daphne’s foot with the tip of his shoe and hoping she’d understand the signal. She nudged him back. “I went to Italy to purchase some pieces for one of my family’s cottages in Venice, and Daphne was kind enough to accompany me.” 

“You know how they like to twist things,” said Daphne.

“Oh, good. It’s important to know the boundaries,” she said. “I know that both of you have been raised properly.”

“We’re all aware of the circumstances, mother.” 

“That’s a relief,” said a husky voice. Immediately, the women stood up from the table. Draco shifted in confusion, then followed suit.

Draco had met the head of the Greengrass family before, from afar and with disinterest. The Greengrasses hadn’t been involved with the Dark Lord or harbored any attachment to the dark arts. Even if they were largely respected, they had always been somewhat reclusive, their social circle smaller than most.

Douglass was of unremarkable appearance. He was balding, barely taller than his wife, and his age showed in the wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes. Together, Douglass and Asta looked poised and somber, but without calling unnecessary attention to themselves. In contrast, Astoria and Daphne carried themselves with the elegance and allure expected of people of their stature. 

Draco wondered if that was intentional. 

As he watched Douglass press light kisses on each of his wife and daughters’ cheeks, an understated confidence in his movements, he thought that the Greengrass patriarch was a man who did little without purpose. 

Draco shook his hand firmly when the man reached him. “It’s been a while, Draco. Please, sit down,” said Douglass, finding his seat at the head of the table. Draco obeyed, uncomfortable with the way the women waited for them to sit before following suit. “How is your mother?”

“She’s well,” he said. “She’s been making herself busy.”

“That’s good,” he nodded, taking a sip of his wine. “Your father? Have you had any contact with him at all?”

“We exchange letters regularly,” said Draco, clenching his fist under the table. He didn’t want to talk about his father, especially not with this man. “He’s been doing well, as much as can be expected, of course.”

“It’s unfortunate how his case was handled,” said Douglass. He paused when four well dressed elves appeared, holding an array of trays. 

They didn’t look up from their tasks, not even to address their master and mistress. Instead, they worked at a synchronized pace, their movements alarmingly silent. They were quick to set the table and disappear. 

Draco thought of Minzy -- alway shivering with anxiety, stumbling on her own feet, but responding with a sarcastic attitude when she thought she could get away with it. His mother must’ve turned green in envy when she saw the Greengrass’ house elves: practical and mostly unseen. 

“As I was saying,” continued Douglass, cutting a piece of his lamb, “I believe your father’s case was judged too harshly. But you know how the Ministry was eager to improve its image after that _disaster_.”

Draco bit back a retort. _That_ disaster _killed thousands of people_ , he thought, _while your family watched safely from afar._

“Dear,” said Asta, fluttering her lashes as she turned to her husband. “Perhaps we shouldn’t talk about such depressing events at dinner? Fortunately all of that is behind us, and we have a bright future to look forward to.”

Douglass nodded, dabbing his lips with an embroidered silk napkin. “Ah, of course, the lovely union of Daphne and Draco,” he looked to them, an unreadable expression on his face. “How did you find your way to each other, again?”

Daphne licked her lips, smiling sweetly. “Well, we’ve been friends since Hogwarts--”

_

Douglass’s study was so immaculate and sparse, Draco had trouble believing the man actually spent any time in it. The floor was stone and completely bare, and the windows were covered by heavy velvet drapes. On the far wall sat a small oak desk, with a couple of cream leather armchairs sitting across from it. Above the desk shone a large, golden unicorn horn, and to its right was displayed what looked like a centaur’s head. 

Draco quickly averted his eyes, trying not to let his disgust show. His gaze fell on the near wall, where portraits of the Greengrasses’ male lineage tracked his every move. 

“Make yourself at home, Mr. Malfoy,” said Douglass, walking into the room. Draco followed, shutting the door behind him.

“Do you mind?” asked Draco, pulling his pack of cigarettes from his coat’s pocket. 

“I do, if you’re choosing to smoke so cheap,” said Douglass, opening a desk drawer filled with expensive cigars. He took one out and handed it to Draco. “Your father should’ve taught you to appreciate a good cigar. A friend of mine gifted me these from a lovely tobacco farm in what used to be Ceylon. The elves there are known for their exquisite skills.”

Draco placed the cigarette pack in his jacket pocket and lifted his wand to light the cigar. “My father’s more of a drinker than a smoker,” he said.

“I’m not much of a drinker myself,” said Douglass. “A good wine now and then, some firewhiskey when it’s appropriate, but I believe a man must know how to restrain himself.”

Draco hummed in agreement, sitting stiffly in the armchair Douglass pointed him to. They shared a moment of silence, both observing the smoke forming grey clouds in front of their faces. 

Despite the comforting taste of tobacco, Draco couldn’t allow himself to relax. He didn’t know what Douglass wanted from him -- he couldn’t imagine he’d called him into his study to give a stern warning against hurting his daughter. But discussing the finer details of pureblood courtship would be just as unappealing. 

Douglass’s expression was unreadable, and with each passing second, Draco felt an increased sense of foreboding. “I don’t drink much, either,” he said finally, watching the cap of ashes lose its grip on his cigar and drop into the ashtray. 

“I noticed,” said Douglass, his eyes falling on Draco. “Your glass remained full throughout dinner. You could’ve mentioned that you would prefer a non-alcoholic beverage.”

“Wouldn’t want to inconvenience your wife, sir.”

Douglass nodded in appreciation. “I think it’s unnecessary for us to further discuss your relationship with my daughter, Draco,” he said. “I’ve raised Daphne to handle her own affairs, she understands her responsibilities well. And to be frank with you, I’ll leave the silly details of courtship to the women.” 

“Certainly,” said Draco flatly. He wondered what Douglass saw when he looked at his headstrong, storm of a daughter. A flower, maybe. 

“Asta has been quite enthusiastic about this relationship of yours, like a pet project of hers, if you catch my drift,” he said, coughing roughly when the smoke escaped down his throat. “I guess I’ll need a drink, after all. Could I interest you in some firewhiskey?” 

“None for me, sir.”

“Suit yourself,” said Douglass, pulling his wand from its holster inside his sleeve. He summoned a large bottle of firewhiskey from inside the desk, along with a crystal glass. “As I was saying, I don’t feel the need to meddle, as long as everything goes smoothly, of course. We’ll let the witches worry about that, and we’ll talk about what really matters. Are you following me, Draco?”

 _Unfortunately_ , thought Draco. Douglass’s gaze was sharp and steady on him, as if expecting him to falter. “Daphne and I are having fun getting to know each other,” he said, with a stoic expression. “I assure you I only have the best intentions.” 

“As you should,” said Douglass in a patronizing tone. “You’re a part of the program at the Center for Mental Rehabilitation, aren’t you?”

His scrutiny reminded Draco of Bellatrix, who had made a hobby out of trapping him into his own weaknesses. Despite that, the glint in Douglass’s eyes felt calculated, differentiating him from the category of wizards who he was used to dealing with. 

It made him more cautious of what he let show. 

“Yes. It’s a part of my probation.”

“What do you think of it?”

“It’s interesting,” he said. “Poorly managed, of course. I’ve avoided calling too much attention to myself. I want it to be done and over with as soon as possible.”

“Excellent,” nodded Douglass, sipping his firewhiskey. “Discretion is a difficult art to master. It baffles me how little it’s been cultivated by those in our circles. We’re the ones who need it the most. The war debacle is a perfect example of how histrionics lead absolutely nowhere.”

“Is that why your family remained neutral, sir?”

“The Greengrasses have never affiliated themselves with barbaric displays of violence,” said Douglass. “There’s nothing to be gained by going to war.”

“We can agree on that.”

“I can respect your family for your loyalty,” he drawled. “But this is a new era, and as such, it’s important for your generation to get rid of the mentality most of mine have fallen victims to.”

“Do you believe things are changing, sir?” asked Draco, thinking of Granger’s steady refusal to give up on her principles. He wondered if Douglass would respect that, too, or if he would try to squash it. 

“I think we can, but we need to commit to establishing ourselves as pillars of the wizarding community.” He licked his lips, leaning forward in his chair. “But I’m a old man, Draco. That mission should be in the hands of our youth, such as yourself.”

Draco’s stomach turned at the idea. He suppressed the urge to stand up and leave, making sure his question came out steady. “And how do you believe we should do that, sir?” 

“Investing in said youth, of course. Increasing morale, so to speak. If morale is high, the intricacies will sort themselves out.”

“You make it sound easy.”

“Hogwarts wasn’t built in a day, Draco,” smirked Douglass. “Everything is possible with patience and playing our cards right. Your mother has assured me that you’re committed to our vision for the future, but man to man, I must ask you directly.” 

“I’m not sure that I have the power to help with much, sir.”

“Ah, that’s a problem we’ll soon solve,” he said with a wink. “Now, you already have the right mindset. Continue with the program, avoid calling any attention to your probation status, and of course, continue _getting to know_ my daughter.”

Draco flattened his lips in a resemblance of a smile. “I plan on doing exactly that, sir.”

“Then we’re on the same page,” said Douglass. “Now, would you care for another cigar?”

_

Draco ignored the portrait of the late Greengrass matriarch yelling after him as he power-walked down the hallway. He wanted _out_ \-- out of the immaculate, spotless walls of the Manor, away from the watchful eyes of this family. 

He was too intimate with the feeling of anger beginning to boil inside of him. But now, it was accompanied by a horrible shame that made Draco want to rub off every inch of skin until he felt less disgusted with himself. The past hour had felt like his return to the leading actor of a well-rehearsed play. Familiar, yet freshly unpleasant, with an audience that would close the curtains on him if he appeared to falter.

Draco was almost out the door when he heard Daphne hiss his name. He twisted his face in a scowl and turned around, finding her on top of the staircase, beckoning him with her hand. 

“No way,” he hissed back. “If I go up there your parents will think I’m sneaking in to shag you.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’ll look stranger if you don’t _try_ , for Merlin’s sake. And it’ll be quick, they’ll just assume you’re giving me a goodbye snog.”

Draco exhaled an impatient breath, then quickly walked up the stairs. He tried to quell the emotions swirling inside of him. He didn’t want Daphne to notice. 

When he reached the top of the stairs, she grabbed his arm and dragged him into a guest room. Inside, Draco pulled his arm away. “You don’t mean literally snog, right?”

“I wouldn’t kiss you unless I were under wandpoint,” said Daphne, then she frowned. “Or our parents’ expectant gaze. You know what I meant.”

“We won’t get to that point,” snapped Draco, feeling claustrophobic. “We’re ending this charade tonight. I just spent half an hour smoking cigars with your father, pretending to be as much of an imbecile as he thinks I am. I can’t do this anymore.”

“Oh come on, Draco,” said Daphne. “What did you expect?”

“To get my mother off my back for awhile and help you out, which is what we agreed to in the first place,” he hissed. “But now, I have a mother who’s on my arse more than ever. I have your father, who expects me to propose to you, and prepare to represent him officially in whatever bloody mess he’s cooking up in his spare time. Bloody politics,” he spat.

“Listen,” whispered Daphne, “I understand that I might’ve miscalculated their investment in this. But like I said, soon Astoria will have her own betrothal and they won’t care about mine any more.”

“That could take months, Daphne,” said Draco. “Do you seriously think we’re going to be able to put them off for that long? If our mothers had their way, you’d be wearing a ring right now.’

“I don’t care,” she snapped. “I’m not ready, Draco.” Her voice shook. Daphne pressed her fingers to her eyelids, and Draco felt a stab of pity. “I need more time,” she said.

“I’m sorry, but no,” he said, shaking his head, ignoring the tears slowly gathering in her eyes. “I don’t want anything to do with any of this. This is a bloody mess, and I’m done with messes.”

“What did my father even say that bothered you so much?” she said, wiping her eyes. “He’s a good person, Draco. Better than most, I guarantee you that. He wants us all to be in a position where we don’t have to retort to violence again. He cares deeply about the pureblood community.”

“The same father who barely lets you speak at the table? Don’t be delusional, Daphne. We don’t get the luxury of having good fathers,” he scoffed. “And to be frank with you, I could care less about the pureblood community. I only care about living my own bloody life.”

Daphne pursued her lips. He watched how swiftly her expression transformed. The fear in her eyes disappeared with a blink of her eyes, and a cold smile appeared on her face. “Have you told your mother that?”

“Fuck you,” he snapped. “Don’t act like you’re not the one who’s got more to gain from this.”

“Then don’t act like you don’t have anything to gain at all,” she said. “You’ve got to trust me on this or we’ll both get screwed. Give me more time to figure something out.”

“To figure out your escape to bloody America? Leaving me to deal with this?”

“We both know that you’re going to leave with your reputation mostly intact,” she said. “You’re not the one who’s gay. And a female.”

Draco exhaled loudly, crossing his arms. He and Daphne stared at each other. He didn’t care about fighting with her; he didn’t care about any of this, he thought. _Except your soon to be widowed mother is counting on you_. 

“You understand that if we keep doing this, it'll blow up in our faces?”

Daphne sighed. “And what if it doesn’t?” she fired back. “You don’t need to think too hard about this, Draco. If it’s bad with your mother right now, then it’s going to be bloody worse if you tell her you willingly broke up with me. I won’t take the blame for that, not yet at least.”

Draco was almost impressed. Daphne knew she had him cornered. _Fuck_ , he thought. He’d give anything to be out of there, to be at his flat, Granger rubbing his back, in the one place he didn’t have to worry about schemes and trying keep a sandcastle from crumbling. 

“Figure it out, Daphne,” he said. “ _Soon_.”

She smiled and pulled him into a hug. “I promise.” 

Draco patted her softly on the back and pretended to believe it.

_

He didn’t spot her immediately. 

She sat quietly on the couch facing the fireplace, her legs criss-crossed and eyes fixated on Draco’s slim figure. He looked troubled. He was holding himself too tightly, his beautiful face set in a sneer. 

He ripped off his suit jacket in one brusque movement, throwing it into the hall closet without looking where it landed. Hermione pressed her head to the back of the couch and took in the way he stepped out of his shoes and undid the buttons of his dress shirt, giving her a full view of his chest. 

Hermione had known Draco for years, but had spent most of that time unaware of how handsome he actually was -- but she noticed it now. He was the opposite of what she thought she’d want: all poise and refined beauty, not one rough edge to speak of. 

He hadn’t even looked at her yet, but she felt the knot in her chest begin to ease. 

“Are you enjoying the view?”

Hermione jumped. “I thought you hadn’t seen me.”

Draco chuckled, finally meeting her gaze. His eyes softened slightly, but he was visibly tense, his jaw set tightly. “You don’t think I’d notice someone in my house?”

She shifted in her seat. “I’m sorry. I’ve been here all day and I didn’t even ask you,” she said, swallowing nervously. “Am I pushing a boundary?”

“If I didn’t want you here, I would tell you, Granger,” he said, stepping towards her. “I could lock the Floo, for starters.”

“I already have a perfect memory of this place,” said Hermione. “I could just apparate.”

“I’m quite good in anti-apparition spells,” he shot back, stopping in front of her. He placed both hands on the back of the couch, caging her in. “I’m not doing that, though.”

“Because you like me here?”

He scoffed. “I’m not flattering you either.”

“A bit of flattery goes a long way,” said Hermione, her eyes steady on him. Malfoy bent down, their faces just an inch apart. 

“I don’t think you need it, though,” he whispered. “ _Hi_.”

“Hi yourself,” said Hermione, moving to clutch either side of his chin and pulling him down to kiss her. She wanted to get rid of the look on his face.

The ease with which his lips found hers made it feel like they’d been doing it longer than they had been. They didn’t have to spare too much effort into the way they moved together, his tongue wrapping around hers, her mind becoming dizzy, her heart hollering inside of her chest. His shoulders were still tense, and her head was still hurting, but the longer they kissed, the easier it became to forget. 

Hermione slid down the couch, dragging him with her. He groaned in appreciation, tugging his lips away from hers and finding her neck. She loved how his body cloaked hers without making her feel overpowered. She loved how the muscles of his back flexed under her hands -- how he seemed eager to touch all of her at once. 

“Do you want me, Granger?” he asked, pressing a kiss to the corner of her lips. 

“What do you think?” she muttered, hitching her hips upwards. His body shook and Hermione crumbled the fabric of his shirt in her fist. 

His mouth found hers again, and she went under, unable to form any coherent thought as their hips snapped together over their clothes, their lips locked in a beautiful dance they created for themselves. 

_

She pressed her eyelids closed, letting the quiet wash over her, their breathing the only sound echoing in the room. 

They had been lying in bed for a while, naked and exhausted, bodies slick with sweat. Hermione waited for sleep to find her, but her heart was still racing inside her chest. 

Draco was the one to break the silence. “We don’t get a peaceful day around here, do we, Granger?” he said, his voice barely audible. 

Hermione snorted. “Doesn’t seem like it, no,” she agreed, opening her eyes. “You noticed?”

“You were sitting in the dark when I first came in, love,” he said, the corner of his lips twitching. “It was kind of obvious.”

“I don’t want to bother you with my problems,” said Hermione. “I know that I’m a lot to handle, even when I’m not constantly throwing my issues your way.”

“Have I ever made you feel like I wouldn’t listen, Granger?”

Hermione licked her lips. “You’re not in a good mood either,” she said. “I realized something recently.”

“Yeah?”

“I have this habit of putting everyone’s burdens above my own,” said Hermione. “And sometimes it’s too much for me to carry. People push and I cave in, then I don’t fix anything and I feel guilty.”

“Do I make you feel like that?”

“No, you don’t,” said Hermione, firmly. “But I’m working on getting these pieces of myself back, Draco, because I remember a time when I didn’t feel like this. And what I don’t want is to do the same thing to you without realizing.”

“I don’t think that’s the case, Granger.”

“Maybe not, but I wanted to say that it’s okay to focus on your issues first, and it’s okay if sometimes you can’t add more stress to yours. You didn’t look good when you got here tonight, so we don’t need to talk about my problems.” 

Draco sighed, averting his gaze. She studied him, balling her hand into a fist so she wouldn’t reach out. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. 

“I think it’s possible to find a balance, Granger,” he said. “I think it’s possible to let yourself be taken care of, without overwhelming someone. And you _can_ be there, without letting someone else overwhelm you.”

“I’m scared I don’t know how to find that balance,” she said quietly.

“We can help each other, if you want,” he whispered. Hermione wanted to ask _how_ , she wanted a guidebook. She wondered if Draco knew that she was terrified of losing herself in the process of finding him.

She lifted her hand to caress his cheek, unsure of how to respond. He covered her hand with his. “We’re majorly messed up, Draco.”

He chuckled. “I don’t disagree.”

Hermione smiled when he squeezed her hand. _We can help each other_ , she repeated to herself. “Alright,” she muttered. “You start.”

He didn’t answer straight away, and Hermione held her breath as she waited, wondering if he’d put his guards up, if he’d said empty words with no intention of backing them up.

“Okay” he said, in a shaky voice. “I’m going through the old debacle of trying to do the right thing and not getting screwed over in the process.”

Hermione clicked her tongue. “A very hard thing to accomplish.”

“Don’t I know it?” He raised a brow. “I don’t have a good history of making the right choices.”

It was hard for Hermione to offer any reasonable advice when he was talking in riddles, but she took it for what it was. He was trying. “I think you know what’s right.”

“I do?”

She hummed. “Sure. Maybe what you’re struggling with is finding the courage you need.”

“And what happens if I don’t find it?”

“I’m not sure, Draco,” sighed Hermione. “I think you’d have to learn to live with what that brings you. The places it’ll take you.”

“I guess,” he grunted. “So, what’s hurting _you_?”

Hermione took the hint, willing herself to keep her end of the bargain. She bit her bottom lip, trying to fight the shame she felt when she considered her predicament. _He won’t judge you_ , she reassured herself. 

“I got fired in the disguise of a bogus promotion,” she rushed out. “Congratulations, you’ve got rid of me pestering you twice a week.”

“What the fuck, Granger?” he frowned. “Are you making a bad joke?”

“I wish,” sighed Hermione, watching him bristle on her behalf. “When I talked to Hughman about Rookwood, it didn’t even cross my mind that he would find a way to retaliate. I feel so naive.”

“What a bloody git,” he snapped. “What can you do?”

“I don’t know,” she shook her head. “Cartwell warned me that I should’ve let it go, but I didn’t listen to her.”

“I’m sorry, Granger.”

“There are too many weird things happening around us, Draco,” she whispered. “I’m going to find out what’s going on. I’m sick of being out of the loop.” 

Something indiscernible passed over his eyes, but he quickly pushed it away. “Sometimes it’s better to not know, Granger.”

“I don’t think so,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t like feeling used. And I think that’s exactly what’s been happening.”

Hermione thought he’d argue with her, but he just sighed. 

“I’m not going to try to talk you out of it,” he said, sounding like he wanted to do exactly that. 

“And you wouldn’t be able to,” she said. “I’m going to be more cautious this time.”

Hughman had taught Hermione a valuable lesson -- making her case without anything real on her arsenal had been foolish. It was necessary to understand all pieces of the puzzle before she made any moves. She had made it easy for Hughman to sweep the rug from under her, and she was determined not to repeat that mistake. 

“I still feel bad, though,” she muttered. “Was I silly to think I was making progress? Even if it was with Theo? Even if it was with _you_?”

He exhaled a sharp breath. Hermione’s heart faltered as she waited, refusing to look him in the eye -- she didn’t want him to lie to make her feel better. She’d rather not know. 

“I think,” he said hesitantly, “I think you were getting closer than anyone else, if that’s worth something.”

Hermione searched his gaze. “I’m _furious_.”

“Anger isn’t a weight, Granger,” said Draco, kissing her on the forehead. “For you, anger is a weapon.” 

_ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the chapter on the long side, woah. But as it goes: the plot thickens. (I'm so SORRY to everyone who loves Hermione at the meetings, this was the plan since my first few conversations with my beta, lol). 
> 
> A nice note, though: I've been putting together a playlist for the story since I started writing it back in march. I'm finally finishing it, so I might share it with you guys next week, so my beta won't be the only person getting unsolicited song recs every chapter I write lol 
> 
> Thank you so much for the comments on the last one! I'd love to hear your theories on what's going on :) let me know what you think on the comments or on my tumblr https://masterofinfinities.tumblr.com/


	20. You Swallow My Heart, I Want It Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter edited by @jeparlepasfrancais

" ** _We're shooting the scene where I swallow your heart and you make me spit it up again._ ** I swallow your heart and it crawls right out of my mouth. **You swallow my heart and flee, but I want it back now, baby.** I want it back. Lying on the sofa with my eyes closed, I didn't want to see it this way, everything eating everything in the end. We know how the light works, we know where the sound is coming from. Verse. Chorus. Verse. I'm sorry. **We know how it works. The world is no longer mysterious.** " Dirty Valentine, Richard Siken

* * *

“This is a shite-fest!” bellowed Ginny as she stomped down the stairs. Her profanities grew bolder when she stepped into the Burrow’s small living room, bumping against the huddled shelves, couches and armchairs.

She stopped in front of Hermione, who was sitting on the floor, head bent over the coffee table. She waved her wand in practiced motions, her fingers cramping and her mouth dry from muttering the same charms over and over again, coaxing tiny wooden owls to float. Ginny had _insisted_ that the place card holders hover above each assigned seat, with the guest’s name printed on a small card dangling from its beak. 

“What happened?” said Hermione, looking up to find Ginny staring angrily at her. If she was this agitated about an engagement party, Hermione couldn’t imagine how strung up she’d be before to the actual wedding ceremony. 

“I don’t have anything to wear, Hermione,” she barked. “I somehow gained twenty bloody pounds overnight, because I swear to Morgana that I tried on that dress yesterday and it fit like a glove. Now it isn’t even sliding past my thighs!”

“I don’t think that’s physiologically possible,” muttered Hermione. Ginny narrowed her eyes. “Can’t you wear another dress?”

“No, I cannot,” spat Ginny. “Because I _don’t_ have another dress, Hermione. Everything in my wardrobe I’ve already worn before, and this is my engagement party! How ridiculous would it look if I showed up in something that everybody’s already seen?”

 _I don’t know that anyone would notice_ , thought Hermione, biting her lip to keep herself from saying it out loud. She knew better than to try to reason with Ginny when she was upset. 

“Alright,” she said, scanning her brain for a quick solution. “You know what? I think I can fix it.” 

She stood up, placing the wooden owl on top of the coffee table before wrapping a hand around Ginny’s elbow and pulling her up the stairs, ignoring her loud protests. 

In Ginny’s bedroom, Hermione snatched the dress up from where it lay in a heap on the floor. “Put it on,” she ordered, handing it to Ginny, who took it with reluctance.

“Didn’t you hear when I said that it literally doesn’t _fit?_ ”

Hermione sighed, trying to summon patience. “I heard, but I know how to fix it,” she said. “The boys and I lost a lot of weight when we lived in the tents. So I developed a spell to refit our clothes.”

Ginny arched a brow, looking intrigued. “Can you enlarge the dress without ruining the fabric?”

“I think I can,” she said, rubbing her temple. “Put it on and I’ll see what I can do.”

Without hesitation, Ginny shed her clothes off and pulled the dress over her head. It slid easily past her breasts and stomach, but stretched uncomfortably around the hips and thighs. _It does fit_ , thought Hermione, who had correctly assumed that her friend was exaggerating, but it probably wouldn’t be comfortable to spend an entire evening in. 

“Okay,” she muttered. She thought through the spellwork, trying to figure out the best way to tweak it to what she needed. “Let me know if this feels uncomfortable,” she said, pointing her wand at Ginny and mumbling a quiet incantation under her breath. “ _Dilata in vestimentum.”_

She watched as the fabric began to expand around Ginny’s body, tracing her curves with a bit more give. The waistline ended up slightly looser than it was supposed to be. Hermione held out a hand to silence Ginny before she could complain, then muttered, “ _F_ _overentur vestimenta._ ”

She smiled in pride when the dress readjusted perfectly, the ivory satin hugging Ginny’s waist. Ginny pounced on Hermione, squeezing her in her arms. “You’re bloody brilliant, Hermione,” she squealed. “Merlin bless your huge brain.”

Hermione chuckled. “Alright, that wasn’t much,” she said, relieved when Ginny loosened her hold and she could breathe again. “It looks perfect on you.”

“I know,” gushed Ginny, turning to inspect herself in the large mirror. The dress was ruched up the sides with an asymmetrical heline that fell just above her knees, its v-neck highlighting the golden pendant that shone between her breasts. “If you ever give up on whatever it is that you do, you could invest in a future in fashion.”

“Not likely,” snickered Hermione. “This spell is about practicality, not style.”

“Take the compliment,” exclaimed Ginny, still apprainsing her reflection. She gave herself one last satisfied grin, then turned to face Hermione. “Alright, the party is starting in under an hour, so you should get ready.”

“There’s about ten place card holders that I need to finish.”

“Don’t worry, the number I told you included a couple extras. I’ve already received all the RSVPs, and you’ve made plenty. Thank you, by the way!”

Hermione smiled, then reached to pull her own dress out of her purse. She had struggled finding something to wear, but she knew this dress was the perfect choice as soon as she laid eyes on it. Its top layer was made of bare cream-colored lace, interwoven with pink, yellow, and blue flowers, with a short slip covering her torso. The sleeves fanned out into a bell shape at her elbows, mirroring the flare of its hemline. Its light fabric contrasted with her brown complexion; it made her feel like she was glowing. 

“You look different, Hermione. Lighter,” said Ginny, smiling. Hermione finished smoothing out the wrinkles in the dress and looked up at her. She was sitting at the edge of the bed, sticking pins into her long hair, scrutinizing Hermione. “Are you seeing someone?”

Hermione inhaled sharply. “Wh-what?” she stuttered. “Where did you get that idea?”

“I’m in _love_ , Hermione,” said Ginny, as if she were pointing out the obvious. “I have a sixth sense for that sort of thing.”

“I’m not in love,” she protested, quickly turning to the mirror. She examined her reflection, her brows creasing in confusion as she struggled to spot a noticeable difference. Ginny scoffed and stood up, leaning against the dresser, her eyes fixed on Hermione, who fidged uncomfortably at the attention. 

“But you _are_ seeing someone?” 

Hermione pursued her lips.

She realized that part of her wanted to lay it out in the open. To share her tangled feelings with her friend, to confide in her about how she found herself in a relationship that was progressively becoming so much more intense than she thought it would be. 

She wanted to pretend like they were back at Hogwarts, sharing chocolate frogs and giggling over a first kiss. She wanted to be happy, and anxious, but in a good way, like butterflies in her stomach, and she wanted to tell Ginny all about it. 

But they were no longer at Hogwarts and she was no longer fourteen. She knew that opening up to Ginny would set in motion a chain of events that would unquestionably make life harder for the both of them. Draco was a secret she hated to keep, but she had to nonetheless. And that thought made her ache with loneliness. 

Hermione sighed, then gave herself a bit of a reprieve. “I am,” she muttered uncertainly. 

“You are?” gasped Ginny. “Are you serious? Who is he? Or she? I don’t know.”

“It’s kind of private,” said Hermione. Her words made Ginny’s eyebrows lift in curiosity. “I can’t tell you, Ginny, so don’t try to make me.”

“Ah, come on,” she pressed. “Does Harry know? And he didn’t tell me?”

“Harry doesn’t know anything,” snapped Hermione, pointing her index finger at Ginny. “And you’re _not_ going to tell him, Ginevra. I swear to Merlin, I’ll obliviate you right this second, and I won’t feel guilty about it.”

Ginny threw her hands up. “Alright, alright," she conceded. “I can keep your secret, but you’re making it sound more dramatic than it probably is. I’m making some wild assumptions right now.”

 _And it probably doesn’t come close to the actual truth._ “It’s not that big a deal,” she lied. “I just want to keep it to myself for now, alright? The media sniffs everything out and suddenly my business is everyone’s business, and the boys aren’t any better.”

“That’s Harry and Ron,” nodded Ginny. “Ron’s going to be gutted, by the way. Aren’t you going as his date tonight?”

“We’re going as friends,” said Hermione. “And it’s none of his business whether I’m dating somebody or not. I’m not going to stop living my life because he refuses to listen to me.”

“Of course, Hermione,” she said. “My brother is a fully grown bloke, he needs to learn how to deal with rejection. It builds character.”

Hermione chuckled. “You’ve never been rejected in your life.”

“Excuse me?” Ginny shook her head. “I spent my entire childhood waiting for Harry Potter to pay attention to me, I know very well how it feels to be rejected.”

She rolled her eyes. “Can I tell you something?”

“By all means.”

“The way I’m feeling about this person,” she sighed. “It’s too much, sometimes, and I don’t know how to deal with it.”

Ginny’s eyes went soft, and she reached to squeeze Hermione’s hand. “I’m happy for you, Hermione, and you should just enjoy this,” she murmured. She looked up at her. “But I have to warn you, if you’re really expecting my brother to think of tonight as anything other than a date, then you’ve forgotten how much of a thick-headed git he can be.”

_

Hermione’s feet were aching. She cursed herself for ever thinking she could handle an entire evening running around in three inch heels, and yearned for her sensible flats. 

As she sagged against a pillar, crossing her arms, she took in the scene unfolding in front of her. 

The room was absolutely beautiful. Ginny and Harry had decided to host their engagement party in the ballroom of a luxury Wizarding London hotel. The large golden room was strung with fairy lights, interwoven with lily petals and making every inch of the space shimmer. Approximately two hundred guests sat at several long tables piled high with food and crystal plates, guided to their seats by the floating wooden owls. Twin bars, stocked with copious liquor, were set on either side of the room. The floor buzzed with scores of caterers and house elves, all wearing golden velvet suits and carrying oversized trays of champagne. 

Hermione had worried that the open bar was a recipe for disaster -- she had daunting memories of tables set ablaze by a misplaced wand, and Ron nearly breaking an ankle after losing his balance on a floating table.

Against all odds, the evening had gone off without a hitch. Everyone behaved appropriately during the three course dinner, likely afraid of Molly’s wrath. After dessert was served, she’d lingered around for just an hour before leaving Arthur to supervise the younger crowd filtering into the dance floor. 

Once she had departed, Harry ordered the music turned up, and the beat of a pop song soared way beyond the hotel’s permitted decibel limit. A tipsy Ginny chanted Silencing Charms into a microphone, then the guests were set loose, finally allowed to do what they’d been waiting for the entire evening.

Now, Hermione watched Dean and Seamus trade shot for shot at the bar, then a heavily pregnant Hannah Abbot twirl around the dance floor while Neville stared at her with devotion. A group of high-ranking Ministry officials circled Harry like vultures, but Ginny didn’t seem to care -- she was laughing out loud, her arms thrown around Fleur’s shoulders as they danced without rhythm, a _Daily Prophet_ photographer clicking his camera incessantly in their direction.

And Hermione, well, she was standing with aching feet, feeling lifted by her friends’ joy as she waited for Ron to come back with her drink, inwardly hoping he’d gotten distracted by Luna on the way. 

Ron had been glued to her side from the moment they left the Burrow, seemingly terrified that she’d disappear if he looked away for half an second. He had demanded her attention even while helping Ginny sort out the evening’s timetable and check the room for faulty decorations, interrupting their conversation with a funny Quidditch anecdote or unsolicited opinion. When Hermione exhaled a little too loudly, Ginny gave her a knowing look.

They had spent less than twenty minutes apart all evening, and at this point she was tempted to curse him with a _Confundus_ charm so she could get some breathing room. 

“Oi, I finally found you,” he hollered, handing her the gin and tonic she’d requested. “Why are you all the way back here?”

“My feet hurt,” she said, at a normal volume. “And I might be avoiding Padma. She’s been trying to interview me all night. She waited in front of my stall when I went to the loo.”

“She did the same thing to me!” 

“She did?” she laughed, watching as he waved his hands excitedly. 

“She didn’t actually enter the loo, but she was lurking in the hallway. I came _this_ close to accidently hexing her,” said Ron, moving his thumb and index finger about a inch apart. “Then Robards showed up and she forgot I was there.”

“Is he still here?” asked Hermione. 

She’d debated engaging him in conversation. From the way Harry had talked about him, Robards was still involved with the Ministry, and he might know more about their intentions for the MRC. But every time she’d gotten a glimpse of him, he was surrounded by a crowd of admirers. 

“I saw him leave a couple of minutes ago,” he grimaced. “Why do you care? I thought you didn’t want a job in the DMLE.”

“Why would I talk to Robards if I wanted a job? He resigned.”

“He’s still there all the time, though,” said Ron. “He and Harry spend hours locked in the office whenever he drops by. It’s like he never left. Except now I’m actually getting missions that are above the level of a bloody toddler. Have I told you that I went to Romania a couple of weeks ago?”

“You did,” said Hermione, overwhelmed by the words rapidly leaving his mouth. She blinked a couple of times, trying to clear her head. “Wait, Robards and Harry have been meeting?”

“Why do you care, Hermione?” he repeated, looking annoyed. “Do you fancy him or something?”

“And what if I did?” she snapped. “It wouldn’t be any of your business.”

“That’s disgusting,” he hissed, face reddening. “He was my boss.”

“So what? He wasn’t _my_ boss,” said Hermione. “And you’re being daft. I was just curious, didn’t you hear the rumors that he’s going to run for Minister?”

Ron huffed, giving her a skeptical look. “Who’s saying that?” 

“ _The Serpent Wire_ ,” said Hermione, sipping her drink, “ _The Quibbler_ , _Witch Weekly_. You know, it’s actually quite interesting that _The Daily Prophet_ has been silent on the subject. I mean, they’ve gotten the scoop on literally every major Ministry announcement the past few years, and they aren’t covering this?” she said, her voice tinged with disbelief. “Maybe you’ve heard something about it at the DMLE? I mean, they were the ones to announce Harry’s engagement as well. Did he tell you anything?”

Ron exhaled. “Hermione...” 

“I don’t know, Ron,” she said, her mind whirling with the velocity of her thoughts. “They’ve basically monopolized media coverage these days. I’m so curious why no one’s talking about it. It’s kind of obvious they’ve struck some sort of deal with the Ministry--”

“Do you want to dance?” he interrupted. He looked dazed; Hermione wondered how he saw her. She pictured him pointing a remote in her direction, jamming the button to change channels. 

She smiled bitterly. “Right now?”

“I mean, it’s a _party_ ,” he shrugged, looking at her over the rim of his glass. “Don’t you like this song? It’s been playing all over the radio these days.”

 _I rarely listen to anything other than Muggle music_ , she thought. She sighed. Ron had the unmatched ability of making her feel fourteen again -- uninteresting and out-of-place.

“I need to use the loo,” said Hermione, pushing her glass into his chest. He took it, giving her a confused look, but Hermione didn’t give him a chance to speak. “I’ll find you later.”

Before he could protest, she walked away, struggling to ignore the sharp pain of the heels digging into her toes. 

_

Hermione was sitting on a stool in front of the bar, finally able to rest her feet as she nursed her second alcoholic cocktail of the night. The luminous grey cocktail burst into bright silver sparkles everytime she took a sip through her straw. Ron was thankfully distracted by Neville and Hannah, who were most likely on their fifteenth retell of their pregnancy story, so she finally had some time to herself. 

Her feet tapped to the beat bouncing off the walls, and she let the vivacious energy of the room seep into her. Slowly, her earlier irritation ebbed completely, and Hermione finally felt ready to find her friends on the dance floor. 

“Hello there, gorgeous.” _Ah for Merlin’s sake_ , she huffed inwardly, turning to find the smug face of Cormac McLaggen. She arched a brow as he dragged a stool closer to hers, sitting down in front of her with a slimy grin. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“This is an open bar, Cormac,” she said flatly. “It’s all paid for.”

He didn’t seem fazed by her disinterest, smirking as he said, “It’s the thought that counts, right? I could buy you a drink some other time, too.”

 _It’d be a cold day in hell_ , thought Hermione, staring into her cocktail. That newfound peace hadn’t lasted too long. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll have to decline.”

“I’ll change your mind eventually, you know?” he said, the smile still glued to his lips. Hermione felt the overwhelming urge to rip it off. “You won’t always be able to keep up this hard-to-get act.”

Hermione’s nostrils flared. She twisted her face into a sardonic smile. “You’ve gotten even more arrogant, Cormac,” she said through her teeth. “And my hand’s gotten looser. For some reason, it just seems to slip out of my control when I’m around someone I really can’t stand. Would you care to see it in action?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Maybe you should get that checked.”

“Maybe you should leave me alone,” she snapped, waving her hand to shoo him. “You can go now.”

“I’ve always been a catch, Hermione, you’re going to regret snubbing me sooner rather than later,” he said, standing up and resting his elbow on top of the bar. He brazenly ran his eyes up and down her body, making her stomach turn. “I’m going places, you know?”

“Can one of those places be out of my sight?”

He ignored her. “I’m going to be a Wizengamot judge,” he bragged. “One of the most powerful positions in the Wizarding world, able to decide what the future will look like. It would do you some good to--”

“You’re going to be a Wizengamot judge?” asked Hermione, unable to control her curiosity. "Aren't you too young for that?"

“Ah, now I seem to have gotten your attention,” he winked. Hermione’s hand tightened around her glass. “And yes, I will. Age doesn't matter.”

“Will there be an election for that alongside the one for Minister?”

“Oh no,” he said, shaking his head. He surreptitiously moved an inch closer to her. “Wizengamot chairs are inherited.”

“ So you just can’t be a judge if you’re not born into the right family? That’s so archaic.” 

“It’s not completely like that,” he replied, reaching a hand to grab the back of her stool. Hermione’s lips curled in distaste. “Most of the seats are voted on by the Wizengamot. Only the oldest wizarding families have permanent chairs. My family is one of them. We’re very affluent, don’t you know?”

“Fascinating,” she said sarcastically. “So once your family decides you’re qualified, that’s it, you just become a judge?”

“That’s right,” he said with a cocky smile. “Hey, do you want to dance?”

“Sure,” said Hermione. His smile grew. She stood up from her stool, pushed her glass into his chest, and shouldered her way past him. “You can keep that drink. It was free,” she said, ignoring the shock on his face.

Before he could formulate a retort, Hermione walked into the crowded dance floor, letting it engulf her. 

Before she could look for Ginny, she felt arms thrown over her shoulders. Ginny spun her around, yelling in her ear, “I’m having so much fun!”

“I noticed,” she giggled. Ginny was stumbling on her own feet, threatening to topple to the floor. She was bright-eyed and alert, though, so Hermione judged she probably wasn’t in any danger. “May I get you some water, my dear?” said Hermione.

“Water is for the weak! I want vodka!” she squealed, awkwardly moving her hips to the music. “I saw you talking to Cormac. Is he your new bloke?”

“Only if I were imperiused,” said Hermione, her nose scrunching up with disgust. 

“He’s kind of fit,” said Ginny, leaning heavily into Hermione. They were both locked in an out-of-rhythm dance, neither of them quite able to find the beat. “You know who is even more fit, though? My fiancé!”

“He sure is,” snickered Hermione. She bit back a smile when she saw that fiancé approach them from behind Ginny’s back, putting a finger to his lips to warn her to stay quiet. “Why don’t you tell him that?” 

“I will!” yelled Ginny, bobbing her head excitedly. Harry was just a few inches away. "I’ll find and tell him right now.”

“I’m the one who’s found you,” said Harry, wrapping his hands around her waist. She squealed, turning around in his arms and pulling him into a kiss.

For a moment, Hermione stood and observed them, heart aching with longing. She turned around, thinking of Draco’s sardonic smirks and his stoical sense of humor. If he was there, he’d spend the entire night poking fun at her friends, twirling her around the room and finding outlandish ways to make her laugh.

 _Will we ever be able to do that?_ she asked herself. She quickly shook the thought away, knowing she wouldn’t like the answer. 

“There you are!”

Hermione’s head jerked up, her eyes falling on Ron. He grabbed her hands and pulled her closer. “What are you doing?”

“Dancing!” he said, rotating his hips in the most ridiculous move Hermione had ever seen. She let out an incredulous laugh, and he pulled her arms up and down, his fingers squeezing hers. “Dance with me, Hermione.”

“I don’t know if that could be considered dancing,” she laughed. Ron shrugged, seemingly oblivious to how ridiculous he looked. 

Hermione let her insides warm with joy and affection, for being with her best friend, for being at their best friend’s engagement party. Ron let go of her hands and waved his arms in the air. She giggled, spinning around further into the crowd.

She kept spinning, letting herself be overtaken by the music and the moment. Her feet were light on the ground and she threw her head back with abandon, eyes pinned to the lights ricocheting around the room and forming exquisite shapes on the high ceiling, painting the dance floor in neon hues. She squeezed her eyes shut, letting her mind empty and the music pulse inside of her -- unaware of the people surrounding her, unfazed by any look she might be getting. 

When the song came to an end and was followed by a slower tune, she slowly unwound herself from the magic circle she’d created. Her body came to a rest, her chest heaving and lashes fluttering. Ron’s hand reached for hers, but she pulled her arm away before he could touch her. 

When she looked at him, his eyes were wide like moons, staring at her with a mixture of emotions that Hermione was too afraid to describe -- she had seen that look on his face before, but in that moment it hit her like a tidal wave. She couldn’t pretend, not even to herself, that she wanted to return it. 

She wondered if Ron knew that.

“You’re my friend,” she said, sounding far away. He shook his head. She knew he had felt it. “I’m ready to go home now, please.” 

“What a beautiful couple!” exclaimed Padma, appearing like a nightmare come to life. Hermione flinched, blinded by the rapid flashe of the camera. “Ready to give me that interview, Hermione?”

“We’re in the middle of a dance floor!” she snapped, turning to walk away from Padma and the photographer. She sidestepped Ron, who looked stunned. “I’ll see you later, Ron,” she said over her shoulder.

Padma trailed behind her, jabbering at her back. “We can go to the balcony for the interview.”

“I’m _not_ giving you an interview,” spat Hermione, finally stepping out of the dance floor. She power-walked to the entrance hall. “Leave me alone, Padma.”

“We used to be friends, Hermione!”

At reception, she asked, “can you please get my coat?” the concierge nodded and disappeared through a door. Hermione spun around to face Padma, who was digging inside of her purse. “You are awful to me in that column of yours, _friend_.”

Padma shrugged and pulled out a Muggle tape recorder. “That’s what sells, Hermione.”

“I’m not telling you anything. And you _don’t_ have permission to record me,” she said, jabbing her finger at the recorder. “You were invited as a personal guest, you know? How would Harry feel--”

“Harry gave the _Prophet_ exclusive rights to cover this party, Hermione,” sighed Padma, tossing the recorder back into her purse. “But fine, if you want to be like that, I’ve got some nice shots of you and Ron dancing and whispering in each other’s ears. I’ll just run with those.”

“Please don’t,” muttered Hermione. “Ron and I are just friends, I’ve told you that plenty of times. If you imply that we’re dating it’ll be a blatant lie.”

“Everyone is rooting for you both,” said Padma, as if Hermione was failing to grasp the full picture. “You’re one of the Wizarding World’s most beloved couples.”

“Except we’re _not_ a couple,” said Hermione angrily. She gave the concierge a grateful smile when he handed her the coat. “Don’t test me, Padma. I’ll sue you for defamation.”

“We have an entire department to deal with that,” she shrugged. “Well, nice chat, but I might be missing some interesting stuff. Let’s catch up some other time.”

“Padma--” said Hermione, watching as the reporter flipped her hair and strutted out of the room, not sparing her another glance. 

Hermione exhaled a frustrated breath. _Maybe I should’ve drank more_. 

_

She was exhausted. 

Her first day at the MRC in her new position had been a mixture of utter boredom and intense anger and resentment, to the point where she had to stop herself from marching to Hughman’s office and giving him a piece of her mind.

Even if Cartwell’s reports momentarily piqued Hermione’s interest, her mind kept going back to her work with the Slytherins and what she could be doing to help them, instead. She’d spent most of the afternoon sorting through the large stack of files that had been thrown in her office, trying to arrange them into some semblance of order while fighting the urge to burn them to a crisp.

The office was small: the definition of a shoe-box, with brown walls and an old oak desk that seemed on the verge of giving in. Her chair was uncomfortable and sent a sharp pain through Hermione’s spine every time she shifted, which was often.

The only thing keeping her from succumbing to despair was that, at the end of the end, she’d finally see Draco. 

They had spent the past couple of days in virtual radio silence. Hermione was scared that Harry would find a letter delivered when she wasn’t home, or worse, Draco Malfoy standing on the rug in their living room. She couldn’t go looking for him; even if Draco had connected the Manor to the Floo network, the thought of going anywhere near that place made her shudder. 

Hermione had been kept busy by Ginny’s engagement party, but now she was almost embarrassingly eager to finally get him in touching range. Her stomach fluttered as she thought about it. The day dragged along, her impatience making the time pass even slower. 

When the clock finally struck six, Hermione set down the report she was reading, shoved it in the file cabinet, grabbed her purse and haphazardly threw up a locking charm on the office door. Less than five minutes later, she was in front of the fireplaces, waiting for the crowds of stressed-looking MRC staff to dissipate somewhat before murmuring, _“Draco’s Residence._ ”

When she stepped into the flat, she set her purse down on the hallway table, which remained empty except for the Wiggentree she had made Draco buy. She sighed happily, feeling a deep sense of relief.

“Draco?” she called, frowning when she didn’t get a response. They had agreed to meet there at that exact time. 

Stepping further into the room, Hermione waved her wand at the curtains to let light filter into the room, then headed for the dining area, where she found Draco sitting at the table, his back to her, bending down to read something. 

She smiled automatically, and she felt her heart begin to beat faster. She tiptoed her way towards him, holding her breath so he wouldn’t hear. 

When she got close enough, she pressed a sloppy kiss on the side of his neck. “Hello,” she whispered. 

“Granger,” he said dryly. Hermione frowned and pulled away, moving to sitting on the edge of the table. She surreptitiously glanced at the paper he was holding, but he moved it away before she could get a glimpse. 

Draco’s face was stoic, the usual warmth missing from his eyes. Hermione felt her stomach drop. “Did something happen?” she said. “You look strange.”

He didn’t meet her gaze. “Do I?” 

“Alright,” said Hermione, feeling bewildered. “Do you want to talk about it?”

The thing about Draco, thought Hermione, was that he didn’t have to make an effort to look unapproachable. She didn’t know if he had taught himself to do it during the war, when he’d spent so much time struggling to protect himself, or if it was one of those naturally intrinsic traits that someone was born with. In that moment, she hated it. 

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he said. “I came because you don’t like me to send you owls. Otherwise I’d let you know beforehand that I’m not available this evening.”

“We’ve talked about the owls,” said Hermione. “You know that Harry could stumble on one of your notes and get suspicious.” 

“Yes, it’s a shame we can’t find a magical way to avoid that, right?” he said sarcastically. Her eyes narrowed in annoyance.

“Okay, I don't know what's gotten into you,” she said firmly, “but I still haven’t learned how to read minds, so you can either tell me what is bothering you so much or we’ll have to table this conversation.”

“Then I guess we’ll talk some other time,” he spat. Hermione watched him stand up from the chair with wide eyes. 

“Oh, come on, Draco,” she said, moving to follow him. He was still expressionless, and she desperately wanted him to react. “I don’t know what’s going on here. Did something happen at home?”

She stepped closer to him, but he kept his gaze pinned to a point behind her head. His jaw clenched. “Did you have fun at your party?” 

“Excuse me?” she frowned. "What are you on about? You knew I was going to help Ginny out."

“Yeah, sure,” his voice was infused with false casualness. “I didn’t know you were going to spend the entire night with Weasley, though,” he said, meeting her eyes for the first time. 

Hermione arched a brow as she studied him, searching for any hint of what was going through his mind. “That might be a slight exaggeration, I didn’t spend the _entire_ night with him.”

“Was that really the case?” he said, reaching the table in a quick stride. He snatched the paper and held it up for her. Hermione almost rolled her eyes when she saw Padma’s article. She had read it that the morning and filed it away as a bothersome occurrence wholly out of her control. 

“That’s what you’re so upset about?” asked Hermione, taking the paper and setting it back down. She didn’t need to see it again. “Frankly, Draco, do I really have to explain to you how silly this is? It’s the bloody _Daily Prophet._ ”

“I don’t give a shite about an article, Granger,” he hissed. “I’m just wondering why the bloody hell you didn’t think to tell me about it first, because I remember you getting pissed when I didn’t say anything about Daphne, remember? When you and I had kissed _one_ fucking time.”

Hermione wanted to reach for him, but he was completely closed off, like he’d flinch away if she tried. “That was a completely different situation,” she said defensively. “Since you didn’t even _tell me_ about Daphne--”

“Oh, did you tell me you were going on a bloody date with the Weasel?” he said flippantly. “I must’ve missed that conversation.”

“It wasn’t a date,” said Hermione, her voice raising a pitch. “What are you even upset about, Draco? Are you jealous that I went with him? Because that’s one issue,” she waved her hand. “Or it’s because of the article? Because that’s another thing altogether. And believe me, I don’t like to see my business plastered every damn where either.”

“Oh, I’m not _upset,_ Granger,” he spat. “What I’m wondering is why you didn’t tell me about it when you know damn well that Weasel doesn’t want to be your _friend_ , and that I might be _uncomfortable_ if I saw a picture of you two together. So why the fuck does it matter how I found out? You still didn’t say anything.”

His words sounded like an accusation. “So bloody what, Draco?” she said in a high voice. “I’m not responsible for his feelings.” 

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” he said neutrally. Hermione flinched; she knew how angry he was, but only the crimson tint of his face betrayed the intensity of his feelings. His control intensified her frustration. She hated that she couldn’t get rid of the shakiness in her voice.

She closed her eyes for a moment, trying but failing to tamp down her anger. “Did you come here intending to fight with me, Draco?” she said, opening her eyes. “To be frank with you, I didn’t even _think_ to tell you about this. Maybe because it’s not actually a _big deal_.”

He threw his hands up, a mirthless laugh escaping his lips. “Alright, I’ll remember that the next time I even think about--” He stopped himself.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “About what?”

Draco groaned out loud. “Nothing, fucking nothing. The issue here--”

“Oh no, not so easy,” she said. “What are you talking about? What’s going on?”

They stared at each other in silence. Hermione held her gaze, unwilling to let him look away. 

“Why does it fucking matter?” he said at last. “You don’t tell me shite, so I’m not obliged to tell you shite either.”

“What do I keep from you, Draco?” said Hermione, exasperated and confused, feeling like he’d dug into her ribs. “Because you know plenty about my friendship with Ron. I didn’t think I needed to explain it to you any further. Or did you forget all the times that I’ve trusted you with my problems?” she said. “What are you hiding from me?”

He swallowed, and something like clarity washed over his face. “You know what? Forget I said anything, Hermione,” he sighed, the fight seeming to leak out of his body. 

Hermione shook her head incredulously. “You’re such a hypocrite, Draco,” she whispered. “You’re going off on me for not telling you about Ron when you never open up to me about what happens in your life. Or are you going to withhold information whenever I do something that pisses you off?”

“Oh, for Salazar’s sake,” he scoffed. “You’re doing an amazing job of turning things around. Congratulations, Granger. You deserve a pat on the back. You earned it.”

“It’s not my fault you can’t hold your own in a damn argument,” she snapped. Suddenly, the tension tainted the air between them again, and she saw a vein in his neck throb. 

“Maybe I’m not putting an effort because this is a waste of my bloody time.”

“What is?” asked Hermione breathlessly. “This stupid fight? Or whatever this thing between us is? Or me?”

“Maybe all of it!” he exclaimed. Hermione felt her eyes begin to sting. “Fuck, I didn’t meant that. Listen, Granger--”

“How convenient for you that it becomes a waste of your time when you have to explain yourself, isn’t it?” she whispered. “It doesn’t feel good to be backed into a corner? You can’t admit when you’re bloody wrong?”

Hermione saw the second that he shut down, like a concrete wall had been built around him in the blink of an eye. She felt desperate to knock it down, and the urgency of that feeling sent fear straight into her gut -- _is this it, now? This again?_

It shook her to the core -- the thought that this was the point where she let herself fall into the same damn traps. The ones she knew were of her own making; where she buried her own hurts for the sake of someone else’s . 

In the back of her head, she heard a voice begging for her to run, before it got even worse.

“I didn’t actually come here to argue with you, alright?” His voice sounded like buzzing in her ears. 

“You know what? I’m going home,” murmured Hermione, brushing past him into the hall. 

“Are you serious?” he said. “You don’t need to go, Hermione. I didn’t mean it when I said it was a waste of my time. And I was just saying--”

“No,” she cut him off. “I’m not staying to hear you spew your bullshit--”

“It’s not bullshit,” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up. “I can explain--”

Hermione didn’t look at him as she grabbed her purse from the hall table. “Now you want to explain? Why the sudden change of mind?”

“Maybe I didn’t realize you’d flee at the first fucking opportunity,” he snapped. “I was mad, alright, but what’s the bloody point of this if you’re going to leave before I have the chance to say my piece?”

She didn't have the energy to tell him that she _couldn’t,_ that the need to leave had wrapped around her body like a straightjacket. 

“You know, Hermione,” he said in an icy voice. “Why don’t you admit you’re always one foot out of the fucking door?” He ran his hand through a chunk of hair. “You’re really not going to listen to me?”

She didn’t answer. 

Draco rubbed his hands over his face. “Hermione, let’s talk about this.”

Finally, she paused. “No,” she said in a small voice. “I don’t want to talk to you, Draco.” 

“I didn’t mean what I said,” he muttered, sounding far away. 

“But you meant other things,” said Hermione. “I’m going to leave before you say things that you can’t take back--” Her voice was barely audible, like something different would come out if she spoke too loud. Something more similar to _I’m going to leave before I give you the chance to break my heart_. 

“Granger.”

“Stop it,” she begged. “I know you’re going to feel like a fool in the morning when you realize that you tried to hurt me over a bruised ego. I’m going to leave so we actually have a chance to come back from this. But you better listen to me when I say--” Her voice cracked. “This is the first and the last time I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt.”

She waited for him to say something -- anything to make her _want_ to stay. But the feeling inside of her was growing more insistent, like the ground was about to open under her feet. 

She heard his footsteps behind her. Her stomach clenched, and before she fully knew what she was doing, she grabbed the floo powder and stepped into the fireplace. 

She heard him call her name before the flames completely engulfed her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's always those scenes that are tough, but important to write. Draco and Hermione's fight was definitely one of them.
> 
> Btw, I was totally self-indulgent on that outfit-altering spell. How much easier would our lives be if we could do that?
> 
> I'm glad you guys enjoyed the longer chapters, we've got some coming up that ended at almost 10k words, which is nuts (over 100k words in under five months, I'm scared to count up to all the chapters I've got written lol). Link to the promised playlist, which I'll be adding to as we go: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6tfgRf92WaxhAvX45wYlAE?si=kw2QZUjXS1KSQDMIkhxlIA
> 
> Thank you so much for all the feedback. There's a lot yet to happen and be unveiled, and I'm excited to share it with you. Let me know your thoughts on this one :)


	21. This is the In-Between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter edited by the lovely @jeparlepasfrancais

"Here is the hallway and here are the doors and here is the fear of the other thing, the relentless thing, your body drowning in gravity. **This is the in-between, the waiting that happens in the space between one note and the next**." The Dislocated Room, Richard Siken

* * *

Despite the cool Autumn air, the sun was shining bright in a cloudless sky. The Manor’s gardens were vibrant under the late afternoon light, trees swaying softly, fountains sending a light spray into the breeze. Draco was sitting at the table in a white gazebo near his wing of the house. Across from him sat Theo, who sipped on the tea Minzy had brought him with his pinky lifted. 

“She’s a half-blood,” said Theo, setting the teacup down. 

“Who is?” asked Draco, his confused look hidden by dark sunglasses.

“Adelaine, the witch I was shagging,” he said casually. “She made me watch this American sport called baseball. It played on this huge box the Muggles call a telly. It was the oddest contraption I’ve ever seen in my life, but also fascinating.”

Draco took a drag of his cigarette and arched a brow. “Did _Adelaine_ give you that ridiculous thing you’re wearing?” He pointed a finger at the strange hat sitting low on Theo’s head. It was navy blue, with a white logo embroidered on the center; the logo was made up of a crisscrossed ‘N’ and ‘Y.’ Strands of brown hair stuck out from under the cap, which contrasted oddly with Theo’s wrinkled dress shirt. 

“Oh, this?” he said, pretending like he wasn’t waiting for Draco to ask. He took the hat off and turned it on his hand. “It’s from this team called the Yankees. Looks nice on me, doesn’t it?”

“You look more like a tosser than usual,” said Draco, ignoring Theo’s insulted expression. 

“Someone is particularly bitchy today,” mumbled Theo. He gave Draco a frown, but he couldn’t suppress his good mood for too long. “Anyway, I don’t think I’m going to see this bird again. Too much trouble.”

Draco leaned forward with feigned interest, deciding to distract himself with the only entertainment he had available. “Really?”

“She was brilliant, absolutely brilliant, like witches of her stature usually are,” he said, releasing a long-suffering sigh. “But we weren’t meant to be. When I was sneaking out of her house, I bumped into her daughter. I’m pretty sure she was in our year in Hogwarts, a Ravenclaw, perhaps? It got awkward pretty quickly--” he paused, pursuing his lips. “Not that that’s ever stopped me before, but the poor bird was about to pass out, I swear. I don’t think her daughter knew that her mum had such an--” He cleared his throat. “--Active life, if you get what I mean.”

“I wish I didn’t,” mumbled Draco under his breath.

“Anyway, it was good while it lasted. Adelaine got surprisingly upset when I broke things off. I didn’t expect the ferocity of her feelings. But I guess that’s the effect I have on witches,” he said, shaking his head. “She threatened me bodily harm, mate. She threatened to curse me with hexes I’d never even heard of. I had to re-do the wards at the Manor. I’m genuinely scared of going back to _The Three Broomsticks_ in case she’s waiting there for me.”

“The absurdity of your struggles somehow always manage to baffle me, Theo,” said Draco, already feeling his mind drifting away from the conversation. Theo’s voice was slowly becoming white noise, and the thoughts he had successfully kept at bay were threatening to surface. 

_I shouldn’t be here_ , he thought. _I should be at the flat._

“I know!” exclaimed Theo. “It pains me how people just don’t understand that love is better with a deadline. Less risk of looking as awful as you do right now. Is it Daphne? Honestly, you together look as emotionless as my father and my mother used to be, so it can’t be her. Did you damage your favorite throw pillow or something?”

“Certainly,” nodded Draco, staring somewhere over his left shoulder. He’d been stuck at the Manor for the past couple of days, and the air around him had passed the point of merely stifling. The longer he stayed there, the more it felt like the walls were shrinking around him. 

“I should’ve stolen more of these baseball hats. Maybe we should get a telly, don’t you think?” asked Theo, tilting his head as he studied Draco. “I think you’ll like the sport. It might distract you from whatever is making you so surly. I’m kind of getting sick of staring at your scowl all the time. Don’t you think your face will get stuck that way?”

“It might,” mumbled Draco, squinting his eyes from behind the sunglasses. He ached for a good night of sleep. 

“Have you gotten paler?” frowned Theo. “How is that possible? There’s no color in your face at all. You know, Adelaine told me about these tanning salons they have in Muggle London, maybe we should schedule you a session. I would risk serious harm to get the address. That’s what friends are for. What do you think?”

“Sounds good.” 

Draco looked out at the large trees forming an archway of branches and frowned. It had been such a long time since he’d been in the gardens. He’d forgotten how imposing they looked. Nothing about it felt like home. 

“Ah, for Merlin’s sake, Draco,” exclaimed Theo, making Draco jump. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“You shrieking in my ear would be the first thing on the bloody list,” he snapped. “What are you yelling for?”

“Have you heard a single thing I said?”

“Of course, I’m not deaf,” said Draco. “I just don’t remember it. My brain doesn’t retain nonsense.”

“Well, unfortunately, my brain is like a bloody sponge. It soaks up everything, and now it’s soaking up your shitty attitude,” he spat. “I can’t handle this sullen disposition, mate. And it’s actually offensive that this is the third time that I’ve caught you spacing out while I’m trying to talk to you, just because you’re in a mood.”

“You’re the one who invited yourself here, you can bloody well leave.”

“Oh no, we’re getting to the bottom of this, mate. I’m determined,” said Theo in a grave voice. The usual lighthearted glint in his eyes had vanished, replaced by something that looked like concern. Draco cursed under his breath. “Spit it out.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” scoffed Draco, crushing the cigarette in the ashtray. “Minzy,” he called. A second later, the elf appeared by his side. “Get me a bottle of water, will you?”

“Yes, Master,” she said, then disappeared again. Draco waited for her to come back, taking the bottle from her outstretched hand. He uncapped the bottle and took a large sip, mostly to buy himself time. Theo was scrutinizing him through narrowed eyes. 

“Can’t you leave me alone for once?” said Draco finally. “Since when do you want to talk shite over, anyway? The Theo I know would suggest getting plastered.”

“We could get plastered, but you don’t fucking drink anymore, and even if I got you to, you’d be back to looking just as awful in the morning,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Maybe it's the bloody rehab program rubbing off on me or something. So speak already.” Draco sighed and clenched his jaw. 

He couldn’t quite pinpoint when he and Theo became close. Despite growing up together, they’d been mostly acquaintances at Hogwarts. They hadn’t become friends until after the final battle, which Draco usually chalked up to post-war revelry and availability. But when he gave himself a break from his own cynicism, he knew that Theo was a real friend. 

And if he couldn’t talk to Theo about Granger, then he’d have to deal with it on his own. And it wasn’t working. He’d been trying to ignore it, all the while feeling a bag of rocks sitting low in his stomach, too proud to do more than wallow in self-pity. He hated being in his head so damn much. 

Theo was playing with the absurd Muggle hat, content to wait out Draco’s decision. 

Draco weighed the matter in his mind, and even as he knew he’d probably regret it, he opened his mouth to speak. “I had a fight with Granger.”

Theo stopped twirling the hat. “Hermione Granger?” he said, a confused look on his face.

“Do you know anyone else by that name?” snapped Draco. “I think one is more than enough.” 

“Alright, no need to be so touchy,” said Theo, letting the hat fall from his hands onto the table. “You’re like this because of Hermione Granger?”

“Are you dense, Theo?” said Draco, through hissed teeth. 

“Can you blame me?” he shrugged. “This is sounding more insane by the second. When did you even have the time to fight with Granger? We didn’t have--” He paused. “Wait--” he said slowly, realization coming into his face. His eyes widened, and his mouth dropped. “Draco.”

“What?”

“Are you shagging Hermione Granger?” he shrieked, almost leaping out of his chair.

“What the fuck, Theo? I’m not _shagging_ her,” said Draco, feeling genuinely confused. “I mean-- wait, I thought you knew.”

“How would I know that?”

“You kept making comments and looking at us weird. And she told me you said something to her when you bumped into each other at the bar.”

“You were with her then?” asked Theo. He looked like he was going to start hyperventilating. “I mean, I had a feeling, it’s not like either of you were very subtle with all the glances, but I didn’t know for sure,” he said, struggling to gather his thoughts. “I thought you were just pining after each other, you know? Some kind of angsty novel, all drama and heartache and tearing each other apart with your opposing beliefs and traumatic pasts. I had an entire storyline in my head. Never in a million years I thought you’d have the balls to do something about it,” he said, sounding shell-shocked. “It’s actually disappointing that you managed to get your head out of your arse so quickly.”

“Oh, so you enjoy me being miserable?”

His eyes seemed to clear. “Not exactly,” scoffed Theo. “It’s just less dramatic than I figured. Or might not be, if your brooding is any indication. You had a fight with her?”

“That’s what I was saying--” Draco was cut off by Theo’s pearl of laughter. “ _Nott_?”

“I bloody knew you weren’t actually dating Daphne,” he cackled. “You have less chemistry than a werewolf and a vampire forced to snog each other.”

“I could be with them both,” he said weakly. 

“Please,” snorted Theo. “You don’t have the attention span required, for one. Secondly, it’s _super obvious_ that you’re obsessed with Granger, and based on the way you were pining after her when she ran the program, I doubt you’d even want to. Third, I’m pretty sure Daphne likes women.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “ _Theo_.”

“Alright, sorry.” He stopped laughing, and motioned for Draco to continue. “So, you got into a row?”

Draco dragged a hand down his face. “It was bloody stupid,” he sighed, “and I shouldn’t even be talking about this with you. I haven’t talked to her in days, and if she finds out that I told you without her permission--”

“I don’t gossip about my friends,” said Theo, looking genuinely offended. “Do you want me to make an unbreakable vow?”

Draco frowned. “That’d be a bit much, don’t you think?”

“If it makes your witch feel better,” he shrugged. 

“Not my witch,” grunted Draco. He wanted so badly to rewind to before she’d showed up at the flat, to urge himself to _look past_ his own jealousy. To realize that just because he hid things, it didn’t mean that she was doing the same. “I wasn’t very nice to her when we last spoke.”

“I can’t imagine you being nice under any circumstance,” said Theo. “What did you do?”

“What did I do? She went to a bloody party with Weasel, and she didn’t fucking tell me,” he said, voice growing progressively louder. “Then she acted like I didn’t have any reason to be mad, but let me tell you something. If I’d spent an entire night with someone that I _knew_ wanted to shag me and didn’t tell her first, she’d hex my arse to hell.” He exhaled sharply. “I’m not saying I shouldn’t have thought twice before saying what I said. But she left before I could apologize--” His voice trailed off when he saw Theo’s mouth twitch. “Is this somehow funny to you?”

“Sorry,” he snorted. “You just said a lot of words right now, my brain might’ve exploded.”

“You know what?” he snapped irritatedly. “Get out of here, Theo.”

“No, no,” he exclaimed. “I’m listening. I’ll stop joking.” 

“And then I saw those stupid photos in _the Daily Prophet_ , and she had the nerve to get mad at _me_ because I justifiably asked what was up with her and Weasley, and then I overreacted--” 

“Hold on, before I can digest this, you need to backtrack a bit. I don’t have all the facts. When did this thing with Granger started again?”

Draco bit his lip, hesitating. “A while back.”

“So this isn’t new?” he said. “What a bloody mess.”

“It is new,” said Draco, then he thought better of it. “But also it isn’t. Listen, I’m not ashamed of being with her. So if you have any--”

“Do you think I care? Honestly?” he rolled his eyes. “You can’t deny that this is a messy situation. Your mother, for starters? And the fact that everyone thinks you’re dating Daphne? Which I still don’t understand--” He paused. “And, of course, she’s a Muggleborn.”

“Yeah,” exhaled Draco, slumping back in his chair. Theo watched him carefully. 

“Look, it’s not like Granger magically flipped a switch in my brain or anything. But she made a lot of good points, and blood purity was never important to me. Especially after what happened to my father. You, on the other hand, have more to consider.”

“I do,” said Draco, swallowing. “My mother would have a fit, of course. But you know what’s strange?” A bewildered expression passed over his face. “Granger hasn’t asked me what I thought about blood status in a long time. And when it comes down to it…”

“It doesn’t matter?” guessed Theo. “Come on, Draco. You don’t seem like yourself at all.”

 _I don’t_ , thought Draco. But he didn’t want to explain to Theo how he felt. It was hard enough to make himself do it for Granger, and most of the time he failed. 

“What do you want me to do, Theo?” spat Draco. “Do you think I wanted this?”

Theo shrugged. “I doubt it, but I just can’t relate to it. Seems too bothersome,” he pulled the hat from the table and placed it back on his head. “Anyway, I’m sorry about Granger, but what about Daphne? You’re going to keep whatever you have going with her, with Granger on the side?”

“I don’t want to think about that,” he said immediately. “Daphne and I have an agreement, Hermione knows about it, but it’s a lot more complicated than you think.”

“I believe that,” said Theo. “And Granger doesn’t care?”

“She cares, but that’s not even the biggest problem she has with me right now. Amazingly, I somehow fucked up worse than starting a courtship with another woman.” 

“If you want to fix things, then you’ll find a way,” shrugged Theo. “Everything’ll blow over in a day or two. Hey, where do you hang out with her anyway? I can’t imagine you bringing her to the Manor. And I heard from one of my sources that she lives with Potter.”

“Why do you want to know?” said Draco suspiciously. 

“I’m a curious individual,” said Theo. “I have to paint a new image of the two of you in my head now that you’ve gone up and ruined what I had before.”

Draco debated ignoring the question. “Mostly at my flat, the one I bought last year.”

Theo frowned. “The one you never went to?” His mouth dropped open. “ _Oh_ , is that why you bought all that fancy Italian furniture?”

“Did everyone read that bloody article?” muttered Draco. “Granger kept complaining how empty it was, so I solved her problem. I didn’t realize anyone would hear about it.”

“You bought her furniture?”

Draco grinded his teeth. “ _Theo_.”

“Bloody hell,” mumbled Theo. “You never do anything nice for anyone, and you’re buying furniture for her? You’re arse-over-tits.”

“Can you shut up?”

“And you’re not even denying it,” he gaped at Draco, as if seeing him for the first time. He shook his head to clear it. “So let me get this straight, you and Granger fought because she went with Weasel to Potter’s engagement party, and she didn’t tell you, Then you saw those photos on _The Daily Prophet._ She showed up at your flat, you argued with her, and then she left?”

“Basically.”

“Was that all?” 

Draco licked his lips. “I already told you that I said things I didn’t mean,” he said, pressing a hand to his temple. “I just-- no offense, but you’re not the person I want to have this conversation with.”

Theo snickered. “None taken,” he said. “Is _it_ serious, then? Because I can sit here and joke all day long, but if it’s more than a casual shag… I don’t know how you’re going to deal with that, mate.” His words felt more like a stab than he probably intended them to. 

“I don’t know,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “It doesn’t really matter now, anyway.”

Except it did, because Draco would have to choose, and as much as he wanted to summon the strength to walk away from it entirely, thinking of going about his life having not only angered, but also hurt her -- it felt like a rock lodging itself inside his throat. 

Theo gave him a skeptical look. “I’m not going to pretend I understand anything about this, but if I know anything about _you_ , it’s that you don’t exactly give up on things you want. If you like her, which it’s obvious that you do, then find her and bloody apologize already.”

“It’s not that easy, Theo.”

“It’s as hard and as easy as you make it,” he said. “And if it’ll make you less surly, then it’s a win for all of us.”

_

It wasn’t hard for him to tune out Cartwell’s voice. 

She was too soft-spoken, for one -- every word coming out of her mouth sounded measured, so as to not spook an angry bear. Draco wasn’t sure if she was cautious by nature, or expected them to show their claws if she got too close, but it made it easy to pretend she wasn’t there. 

Granger wasn’t soft at all. Ignoring her was never an option; sometimes it seemed like she was intentionally approaching the edge of going too far. But she always backed off before it got too much. 

Even Theo was having a hard time pretending to be interested in what Cartwell was saying. He kept opening his mouth and then closing it, like he was trying to force himself to participate, but then deciding it wasn’t worth the effort. 

Millicent was the same as she’d ever been -- silent unless asked a direct question, aloof even when she was forced to contribute. Draco wondered if she realized their instructor had changed, or if it didn’t make an ounce of difference to her. 

He almost envied her for it. 

The only ones seemingly enjoying Cartwell’s return were Pansy and Rookwood. They wore twin ear-to-ear smiles that made Draco’s hand itch for his wand. It was bad enough that he knew Rookwood had played a role in getting Granger kicked out of the program. And Pansy was somehow worse -- she exuded triumph, like she’d grabbed the golden snitch in the final moments of the Quidditch World Cup. 

She was still babbling on as the rest of the group packed their stuff. “I truly missed these chats with you, Edina.”

“Really?” said Cartwell, her eyes wide in surprise. Draco rolled his eyes and stood up from his chair. “Thank you, Miss Parkinson. It’s easy to pick up where I left off, thanks to Miss Granger’s hard work.”

“Oh but it’s always better to work with an expert, isn’t it?” said Pansy in a sweet voice. “We can certainly feel the difference.”

“I liked Granger’s meetings,” said Draco, approaching them. Pansy shot him a look. “She gave us some intriguing assignments.”

“Like what?” snapped Pansy. “When she forced us to talk to random Muggleborns? She was trying too hard.”

Draco shrugged and gave her a smirk. “It got some interesting conversation going, didn’t it?” he said, sounding forcibly nonchalant. “Even _you_ seemed to be affected by it, or have you forgotten when you almost cried talking about Hogwarts?”

Pansy’s face paled, and she narrowed her eyes. “You don’t need to be such a git.”

“Am I? I didn’t notice.” 

“Alright, alright,” said Cartwell, looking between them with a confused expression. Her voice was still eerily calm. “Like I said, I appreciate Miss Granger’s work, but I’m happy to be back with all of you. I’ll see you both at our next meeting, okay?”

“Of course, Edina,” said Pansy, dragging her eyes away from Draco to offer Cartwell a sharp smile. Draco gave her a mocking salute, watching the woman disappear out the door. 

When she was gone, Pansy turned to him. “Why are you defending Granger?” she spat. 

“I liked her meetings,” he deadpanned. “And watching you kiss Cartwell’s arse for the past hour was nauseating. I never pegged you for a flatterer, Pans.”

“I’m doing what I can where I can, Draco. Can you imagine whatever bullshit Granger reported about me? This is my chance to at least attempt to get out of this shite.”

Theo, who was leaning against the wall facing the door, snickered at Pansy’s words. “I don’t think Granger set out to make your life impossible, Pansy.”

“Oh, so I’m suddenly surrounded by the Golden Swot’s fanclub? You can both choke on your hypocrisy, for all I care. I’m out of here,” she growled. Theo cackled as he watched her strut out the door and down the hallway, her hands balled into fists. Before she turned the corner, she shot them one last seething gaze.

Draco inclined his head at Theo. “You don’t need to defend Granger.”

“You think I’m doing it because Granger’s your girlfriend?”

“Be quiet,” hissed Draco, scanning the room with a panicked expression. 

“We’re _alone_ ,” said Theo. 

“Granger’s not my girlfriend,” retorted Draco, walking out the door. Theo fell into an easy step beside him.

“She definitely won’t be if you keep procrastinating on your apology to her.”

“You know, Theo?” said Draco. “Me making the mistake of telling you about Granger doesn’t give you a free pass to offer your input.”

“I don’t care,” said Theo happily. “I’m invested now. I actually enjoyed talking to Granger at the meetings, and now that Cartwell’s back, you’re my only connection to her, so you better fix your shite sooner rather than later.” 

“Like I’d let you be in a room together.”

“You don’t exactly have a choice,” he said, turning the corner. “Go find her, Draco. Or I’ll have to get involved.”

“That’s actually terrifying,” he said sarcastically. Theo blinked at him. “You can go now, by the way.”

“Are you going to talk to her?”

“I fucking will, now leave me alone,” he snapped. 

“Update me later,” he said with a grin, giving him a jaunty wave and sashaying down the hall towards the fireplaces.

 _I will do no such thing_ , thought Draco. 

He hesitated for a second, running a hand through his hair. He knew Granger was in the building. She’d probably bristle at him for cornering her there, but of several bad options, it seemed the least likely to backfire. He just needed a minute with her in front of him, then he’d figured out a way to fix things between them, even if he wasn’t sure how, yet. 

Draco squared his shoulders and started to make his way to the first floor. He tried to appear unsuspecting as he approached the Staff Lounge, looking around to see if anyone was watching, then trying to push the door open. It wouldn’t budge. 

_Warded to keep non-staff away, then_ , he noted. He stepped away from the door slowly, scanning the hallway. His eyes landed on a young looking witch he'd seen around the building before, and he quickly smoothed his expression. She was stepping closer, shooting him unsubtle glances. 

When she was a few feet away from the door, he turned to her. “Hello,” said Draco, voice infused with forced cheerfulness. She gingerly pushed up the glasses that were sliding down her nose. “You work here, right?”

“I’m a volunteer,” she said, frowning at him. “You’re Draco Malfoy.”

“I am,” he nodded. She wasn’t giving him the usual look -- the mix of fear and barely hidden disgust. She just appeared confused as to why he was talking to her. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Zoe,” she said, eyes flickering between him and the door. “Can I help you with something?”

“Oh, I’m glad you asked,” he said, leaning against the wall. The corner of his mouth lifted in a well-rehearsed smirk, and she flushed. “I’m supposed to have a meeting with Hermione Granger, I’m sure you know her. But I have a family emergency and won’t be able to make it, so I really need to tell her before I leave. Can you call her for me?”

She gave him a hesitant look. “Can’t you send her an owl?” 

“Sure, but I’m already here and I’d hate to make her wait,” he shrugged, his smile growing. “You know how those war heroes are, don’t you? I wouldn’t want to offend her.”

“Yes, I know,” she giggled. “But Miss Granger hasn’t visited the lounge since she got that new office. You’d have more luck looking for her there.”

Draco palmed his face. “Blimey! I knew I was forgetting something. She did mention me meeting her there,” he nodded. “Can you refresh my memory, sweetheart? Do you know which floor it’s on?”

She shifted nervously. Draco pulled away from the wall and stepped closer to her. “I’m not sure if I should give out that kind of information.”

“You’ll be doing me such a favor, though,” he said in a low voice. “I’m certain Granger wouldn’t mind, Zoe. She’ll probably be grateful, since she won’t have to wait until I can tell her of my absence.”

Zoe looked uncertain for a second, averting her eyes. Draco kept the smile on his face as he waited, and finally, her shoulders sagged. “It’s on the fourth floor, left side. There’s a plaque with her name, so you won’t miss it.”

“Thank you,” he said quickly, already turning on his heel. “You’re a dear,” he said over his shoulder, not looking back to make sure she’d heard. 

He quickly made his way to the fourth floor. It was mostly empty, a row of identical doors looking rusty and poorly maintained in contrast with the austere white walls. Draco passed by Cartwell’s and Hughman’s offices, making sure not to linger for too long before reaching the far corner of the hallway. When he got to Granger’s office, he lifted his arm to knock. 

He stopped just before he made contact with the door. 

He was surprised to find his body paralyzed by doubt and fear surging inside of him. Draco glanced at the staircase and considered making a run for it. 

He wasn’t afraid to talk to her -- he was scared of what would happen if she decided not to forgive him. The possibility hadn’t crossed his mind until then. But once it did, he felt his mind begin to spin and his chest tighten.

 _You’re not a bloody pussy,_ he told himself, digging his nails deep into his palms. He took a deep breath and knocked twice on the door, then he stood back and crossed his arms behind his back. After a few seconds of silence, he knocked again, but no response came. 

_She’s not even here_ , he cursed inwardly. He could wait for her, but there was no excuse he could give Hughman or Cartwell if they came out of their offices and caught him there. Even if he could come up with something relatively plausible, it wouldn’t endear him to Granger. 

Draco shoved his hands in his pockets and started to make his way back to the staircase. This time, he walked slowly, with his shoulders down. He wanted a smoke -- he wanted an immediate solution to his damn problem. 

He had almost reached the first floor when he saw her, and his mind instantly went blank. 

Granger looked beautiful -- she always did, but it was especially dazzling to see her for the first time in days. She hadn’t spotted him yet, so he leaned against the railing and drank her in without reservation. 

She had her hair down, with half of her curls pinned away from her face. She wore silver earrings that dangled from her earlobes, and the v-neck of her long-sleeved blouse gave just a glimpse of the base of her throat. Seeing her so gorgeous and unaware made Draco want to rush down and pull her into his arms. 

_What’s wrong with me?_

His heart raced and his palms grew sweaty. As he closed the distance between them, the room seemed to turn black and white, and Granger was the only thing in color. 

“Hello,” said Draco, a little breathlessly. 

Granger stopped in her tracks, lifting her eyes until she met his gaze. Something indecipherable flashed over her face, and she swallowed audibly. “Hello.”

For a moment, they stood there in silence, the air seeming to suck in around them. She lowered her gaze, focusing on a point on his chest. Draco wanted to reach out, but he balled his hands into fists instead. He didn’t know if he was allowed to touch her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I just left a meeting,” he said, fidgeting in place. “It’s not the same without you. Cartwell’s too bloody nice,” he grumbled. 

A small smile appeared on her lips, disappearing as quickly as it came. “She’s a good healer, though. You should take her more seriously, she’s trying her best.”

Draco shook his head. “She’s not you.”

Granger closed her eyes. Draco’s breath got stuck in his throat. He yearned to touch her, he’d do anything to shatter the tension between them. 

She slowly opened her eyes.“What do you want, Draco?”

“Can we talk?” he said in a rush.

“We’re already talking.”

“You know that’s not what I mean,” he said. “I want to have a real conversation with you. We could go to the flat--”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

“Are you going to be mad at me forever?” he said, releasing a frustrated breath. “Didn’t you say you were going to give me the benefit of the doubt?”

Her voice sounded weak when she said, “I am.” 

“Are you really?” he said, unable to gauge what was running through her head and feeling caged by it. “How am I supposed to change your mind if you refuse to talk to me?”

“I don’t know if it’s the right time, Draco.”

“It’s been days,” he said. “You’re pulling away from me.”

“Isn’t that what you were trying to do?” snapped Granger, finally lifting her eyes to look at him.. “You said it was a waste of your time.”

“I didn’t mean that,” he urged. “I’ll explain it to you.”

“Maybe you’re not supposed to,” said Granger. “Maybe this is it, Draco. We had a good time, sure, but what were we really expecting would come out of this?”

He let out a small laugh. “Now you’re worried about that?”

“I’ve always been worried about that,” she sighed. “It was a matter of time before this happened, anyway. We can’t keep playing house in your flat forever.”

“You’re doing exactly what I said,” he said, shaking his head incredulously. “You’re mad at me, so now you’re stepping all the way out of the door, and because of what? Because we got into a silly row?”

Her face flushed in anger. “You said some very cruel things to me, Draco.”

“And I was wrong, I know,” he exclaimed. “But your solution is to run away from me at the first opportunity you get? I didn’t think you were such a bloody coward.”

“That’s uncalled for,” snapped Granger. “Maybe I’m tired of getting treated like shite by everyone in my life, have you thought of that?”

Draco paused. His first instinct was to snap back, but he knew if he said the wrong thing, she’d walk away again. “Weasel and Potter are shitty friends to you, Hermione,” he said in a low voice. “You deserve better than the way they’re treating you. But I can’t fix them.”

She sighed, something like shame passing through her eyes. “I know,” she muttered. “But why did you make me feel like you didn’t trust me with them, like it was my fault?”

“Because I was being a fucking tosser.”

“Well, you didn’t apologize then, Draco. What do you want me to do?”

“I didn't have the time to, Granger. And I was going--” he snapped, then bit back a frustrated groan. “Okay,” he whispered, more to himself than to her. “Let’s talk at the flat, like I first suggested. I want to work this out properly.”

Granger hesitated. “I don’t have the time now.”

“Okay, that’s alright,” he said, nodding. “How about later? After--” Before he could get the words out, a voice called his name from below. Their heads snapped to look over the railing. 

Draco felt his stomach fill with dread as he watched Daphne quickly ascend the stairs, knowing that the moment between him and Granger had ended. He wanted to grab her elbow and apparated them away from there. 

“Draco!” repeated Daphne. “I finally found you.” Her heels clicked loudly against the tiles, and she sounded out of breath. 

“Daphne,” he grunted. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

“I came to pick you up,” she said, looping her arm through his and looking from him to Granger, a coy smile on her lips. “Hi, Hermione. Did I interrupt something?”

“Hi Daphne,” said Granger. Her eyes fell on their interlocked arms, and Draco saw something inside of her shift. “No, you didn’t. We just bumped into each other.” 

Draco searched for her eyes, but Granger refused to look at him. It felt like any progress he had made had vanished, and he wanted to rip his arm away from Daphne’s. 

“Just like at the St. Mungo's ball, right?” said Daphne in an amused voice. “How odd.”

“It happens when you’re in the same bloody space, Daphne,” snapped Draco. “Can you wait for me downstairs? I need to talk to Granger about something--”

Granger gave them a flat smile. “There’s no need,” she said firmly. “You guys should head out. I need to go back to my office, anyway.”

“But--”

“Alright,” said Daphne. “Nice talking to you, Hermione. We should meet up, sometime.”

Granger frowned. “You too. And yes, sure,” she said, sounding confused. 

Draco held in his breath when Granger’s shoulder brushed his. He waited for the sound of her footsteps to grow faint before tearing his arm away from Daphne. “What the fuck?”

“You should thank me, I just saved your arse,” she hissed. “What’s wrong with you? Since when do you think it’s a good idea to have a lovers’ quarrel in public? Anyone could’ve overheard you two and it’d be bloody everywhere, Draco.”

“I was just talking to Granger, ” he snapped. “I’m not going to sit through a lecture from you.”

“Oh, just talking?” She let out a genuine laugh. “With the look on your face? Merlin, I noticed it the second I saw you. Only a blind person wouldn’t.”

“I don’t know what you’re insinuating--”

“Why are you lying to me?” she said. “I’m your friend, and mostly, I’m not daft. If we’re going to help each other I have to know all the facts. So if you and Granger have something--”

“You need to leave it alone,” he hissed. His head was beginning to throb, and he had half a mind to leave Daphne and run after Granger. “You’re not entitled to involve yourself in my business.”

“I am,” she said. “I’m your girlfriend, remember? I’m entitled to know what’s going on with you if it’s going to affect me.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, it won’t,” he said, offering her his arm. “Let’s get the bloody hell out of here.”

She wrapped her fingers around his elbow without hesitation, but her grip was unnecessarily tight. “It kind of humanizes you, to be frank,” she said quietly. “It makes me feel less screwed up.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Daphne,” he said. “Why did you come here?”

“Because my mother kept pestering me that I hadn’t seen you for a few days, and I had to get her off my back. I stopped by your house and Narcissa told me you’d be here,” she said through gritted teeth. “She rather unsubtly _suggested_ that I come find you, and I couldn’t think of an excuse.”

“She would’ve insisted in coming with you, if you said no,” sighed Draco. “My mother doesn’t take no for an answer. Don’t go there if we haven’t talked about it first.”

“I know that now,” said Daphne. She lowered her voice once they stepped into the busy floor. “I noticed that you changed the subject.”

“I’m not talking about this with you,” said Draco. He was conscious of the looks they were getting. Initially, passers-by sneered at him, but their faces softened when they saw the witch on his arm. 

_My mother was bloody right_ , he admitted to himself. It didn’t take a genius to notice the positive effect that Daphne had. It was a shame that he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“So you admit there’s something to talk about?”

“No,” he grunted. “My head is hurting.”

“Granger’s cute, you know,” she continued. “Blood status aside, of course. Since I’m obviously not the avatar of pureblood morality, I can freely admit that you both look good together. Even if she seemed ready to punch you in the face just then.”

Draco's head snapped towards her. “She seemed ready to punch me?” He shook his head when he noticed her amused expression. “You know what? I don’t actually care. Give me your best smile, girlfriend of mine, people are staring.” 

Daphne moved closer to him, then tilted the side of her face towards him. His eyes fell on her sharp gaze. “Kiss me,” she ordered. Draco wanted to refuse, but he bent his head to press a soft peck on her cheek. “Is that how you kiss Granger? I’d want to punch you, too.”

 _Trust me, that wouldn’t be why_ , thought Draco. Outwardly, they looked like they were sharing loving anecdotes. The way Daphne giggled was almost effortless, and his own smile didn’t look too forced. When they reached the fireplaces, Daphne whispered, “Did she hurt you?”

“Please, drop it,” he said firmly. There was a gleam of concern in her eyes, and even if Draco wanted to open up to her, there was nothing in him that was willing to come out. He smoothed his face into a blank expression. “We’re going to Floo to my study. Then you’re leaving, alright? If you stay, my mother won’t leave us be.”

“Draco--”

“I’m serious, Daphne,” he said in a rough voice. “I want to be alone.” He waited for her nod before mentioning for her to step into the fireplace first. 

“You don’t need to keep everything inside, you know,” said Daphne, grabbing a pinch of the powder. “It’s lonely, the business of not fitting in. You don’t need to make it harder on yourself.” She looked at him pointendly, but he refused to respond. “Well, suit yourself then.” 

He silently hoped that she’d be gone when he arrived. He needed to get himself together and figure out what he was going to do. His conversation with Granger had only cemented his unconscious decision. Despite his own doubts, a few minutes in her presence had been enough to quiet the noise in his head. 

He wanted more breathless moments with the solidness of her presence. He wanted more peaceful mornings and her warm body curled around his. _We’ve just started_ , he thought -- it felt like tree roots wrapping around his ankles and planting his feet into the ground. 

_We’ve just started_ , a voice inside his head repeated, feeling less like a thought and more like a truth. He’d crack his chest open, if it was what Granger needed to believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I hope you guys are getting update notifications. Please let me know if you have a problem with it. This is the second time in a row that AO3 is setting my publication date differently (it's the 21st here, but it's set to the 22nd for some reason), I 'backdated' it last week and it messed up how the story showed up in the site's feed, so I'm leaving it be while I figure out what's happening. It shouldn't impact e-mail notifications, but I thought I'd let you guys know that I'm still posting every Friday night, even if the date shows differently.
> 
> I really enjoyed writing Draco and Theo's conversation here. Emotionally-stunted dudes trying to get their shit together? It's simultaneously hilarious and important to write, lol. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did :) 
> 
> I loved reading your reactions to the last chapter. When I initially outlined their fight, I was super nervous, but as my beta said "fights can be healthy, it all depends on how they solve it". This is the in-between, but I'm excited for you guys to see how this unfolds next. Let me know your thoughts in the comments. I'm always thankful for all the feedback.


	22. After We Get up The Ladder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter edited by the fantastic @jeparlepasfrancais

“We have been very brave, we have wanted to know the worst, wanted the curtain to be lifted from our eyes. This dream going on with all of us in it. Penciling in the bighearted slob. Penciling in his outstretched arms. (...) **We make these ridiculous idols so we can get to what’s behind them, but what happens after we get up the ladder?** Do we simply stare at what’s horrible and forgive it?” - Snow and Dirty Rain, Richard Siken

* * *

Hermione was leaning against a concrete wall, trying to make herself inconspicuous. The sky was a morose shade of light grey, and off in the distance, thunder and lightning rumbled. 

She smelled the musky scent of the rain to come and hugged her jumper tighter against her body, tilting her head to look inside the shop. She didn’t know how Ginny could’ve drawn-out the simple task of buying coffee in a nearly empty shop, but she’d been there for almost ten minutes. 

Finally, Ginny turned around, offering a charming smile to the remaining patrons before she stepped out of the shop. “What took you so long?” asked Hermione, reaching for the large to-go cup of Americano. She took a sip and sighed, feeling the caffeine warm her up from the inside and out. “Merlin, I needed this.”

Ginny smirked. “The barista wanted to congratulate me on the engagement. Apparently she’s a huge fan of Harry. She actually had a copy of our announcement that she wanted me to sign,” she said, already beginning to walk down the busy street. 

“Oh, I bet you hated the flattery.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a bit of appreciation,” shrugged Ginny. “I don’t know why it makes you so shy when people tell you they admire you.”

 _Because these people don’t know a single thing about me_. “Well, at least it got you the appointment you wanted so much.”

“Oh Merlin, I know!” exclaimed Ginny, looking thrilled. “Mrs. Choi is the best wedding dress designer in _Britain_! Her creations are _beautiful_.” She exhaled a dreamy sigh.

“That’s cool,” said Hermione, draining the rest of the coffee and throwing the cup into a nearby bin. “But isn’t it kind of early to go dress shopping? You haven’t even set a date yet.”

She shook her head. “The dress is literally the most important part of the ceremony. It’ll take time for us to bring my vision to life. You have my binder with my inspiration in it, right?”

“Yes, it’s in my purse,” said Hermione. “Maid of honor duty, right?”

“Exactly,” she sighed in relief. “Getting the dress together will take _months."_

“Even with the help of magic?” said Hermione, genuinely confused. “I mean, shouldn’t it rush that sort of thing?”

“You don’t rush _perfection,_ Hermione,” said Ginny, giving her an exasperated look. “ _And_ , I might have waited until the last second to tell you this on purpose, but my mum will meet us at the store.” Hermione did her best to appear impassive, but she couldn’t suppress the twitch at the corners of her mouth. Ginny narrowed her eyes. “I didn’t want her to come either.”

“I adore your mother--” tried Hermione.

“But she’s hard to deal with, I know,” muttered Ginny. “She only backed off from that pink tulle nightmare of hers when I agreed to let her be a part of everything else, so this is the lesser of two evils. It could even be fun, you know? Even if we argue some, she'll be helpful.”

She was clearly struggling to convince herself, so Hermione gave her an encouraging smile. “I’m _sure_ she will,” she said, sounding more enthusiastic than she felt.

Once they arrived at the small brick building, Ginny pushed open the door, revealing a narrow staircase. The entrance of the boutique had a whimsical, airy feel that made Hermione think of a fairy’s realm. Enchanted flowers hung from the ceiling, like they’d stepped into a secret garden. The staircase’s golden railing resembled intricate, twisting vines, and its stairs were made of crystal glass, which glowed icy blue when they took a step. 

The white walls were covered with glass frames, each displaying a moving photo of a bride. Hermione paused in front of a frame of Hestia Jones -- she was coyly turning to glance at the butterflies floating over the cream-colored train of her gown. “Oh, Hestia shopped here.”

Ginny hummed knowingly. “Of course she did, don’t you remember how gorgeous her dress was? She had the ceremony that every witch dreams of,” she sighed happily. “Come on, mum must already be inside, and there’s a high chance that she’s already driving the staff crazy.”

Hermione snickered under her breath and followed Ginny to the first level. As they ascended to the platform at the top of the stairs, a pair of huge glass doors opened in front of them, as if welcoming them to a ball. Hermione could hear Molly’s screeching commands from somewhere inside the room. Ginny shot Hermione a frightened glance, and they scurried towards the noise. 

They found Molly walking down a row of wedding dresses, issuing a constant stream of demands over her shoulder. She was followed by a flushed witch who was trying to balance three gowns in her arms. The poor woman looked frazzled -- her ponytail was tousled, and her forehead shone with perspiration. Ginny’s face was turning an alarming shade of red. 

“Mum,” said Ginny in a firm voice. “What are you doing?”

“Oh dear,” said Molly, turning to them with a smile. “Finally you’re here! I already started looking at some options, but I have to say I’m not very pleased with what they have here. Maybe I should make you one.” 

The woman beside her scowled, and Hermione had to press her lips to avoid chuckling. “Mum, can you please stop harassing the employees? My dress is going to be custom made!”

“I tried to tell Mrs. Weasley that these are all last season designs,” said the woman, sounding harried. 

“I didn’t hear it!” said Molly with a frown. “Besides, how was I supposed to know that, Ginevra?”

“You should’ve waited for me outside either way!” exclaimed Ginny. She closed her eyes for a second before exhaling a long-suffering sigh. “It’s fine. Can we please go to the appointment with Mrs. Choi now?”

“Most certainly,” the woman piped up, sounding eager to get out of there. She levitated the dresses in her arms to a large floating wardrobe against the far wall. “Welcome to Ahjumma’s Boutique, Miss Weasley and Miss Granger. I’m Eunji and I’m a sales assistant. Mrs. Choi is waiting for you in her office.”

“Thank you, Eunji,” said Ginny. 

“Would you come along with me?” said Eunji politely. Ginny shot her mother a pointed look before nodding.

While Ginny followed Eunji, who was enthusiastically showing her around the store, Hermione waited for Molly to catch up. “You okay?”

“Of course I am, dear,” said Molly, giving her a warm smile. “That girl is just too much for me to handle these days. The attention is getting to her head,” she sighed. “I swear I tried to teach my children to be a little less full of themselves.”

“I think she’s just excited,” said Hermione. “And maybe anxious, as well? She knows people have high expectations,” she said, trying to gauge Molly’s reaction. 

“If she would just accept my help, she wouldn’t feel like that. We wouldn’t even be here if she’d wear my dress.”

“Well, it is _her_ wedding,” said Hermione neutrally. Molly’s eyes narrowed, but before she could respond, Ginny turned to them. 

She looked at them with an arched brow. “Come on, you two.” 

Molly brushed past them and into the room first. Before Hermione could follow her, Ginny grabbed her elbow and pulled her to the side, gripping her tightly. “I need you to distract my mum, alright?” she whispered.

Hermione looked at her with disbelief. “Didn’t you just tell you she’d be helpful?”

“I changed my bloody mind,” she hissed. “Please, Hermione?”

“Okay, okay,” said Hermione.“I’ll see what I can do.”

Ginny looked relieved. “Thank you,” she muttered, releasing her hold on Hermione’s arm. 

When they entered the room, they found a tiny older woman sitting behind a large desk. She was scrutinizing Molly, who had gone off again, through a pair of glasses which were much too large for her face. Hermione thought she looked amused. She shot Ginny a sidelong glance and followed her to the couch.

Mrs. Choi turned to greet them with a warm expression. “Miss Weasley, is it?” she said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Your mother here is very enthusiastic about your upcoming nuptials.”

“Oh, she is,” said Ginny, the words sounding tight through her smile. “Please, call me Ginny. This is my maid of honor,” She pointed towards Hermione, who gingerly raised a hand. “I’m so honored to have you work with me on my dress.”

“The honor’s mine, certainly. Your fiancé is getting his tux from us as well, am I correct?”

“Yes,” said Ginny, warming up to her voice. “And I want the entire wedding party to wear your designs. Do you keep up with Muggle culture at all? My dream is for it all to look like a royal wedding.”

“It’ll be a winter wedding, so all the dresses will have to have long sleeves,” interrupted Molly.

“That’s an non-issue, mum, we can place warming charms in the venue.”

Molly sighed. “And before people arrive and when they leave, Ginevra?”

“We’ll have plenty of time to work out the finer details, Mrs. Weasley,” said Mrs. Choi smoothly. “Perhaps you would like to flip through some designs with Eunji? We have some champagne for you and Miss Granger in our waiting area.” Hermione smirked, recognizing a professional.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Molly uncertainly. “It’s very important to Ginny and I that I be involved in this process.”

“You certainly will be,” said Mrs. Choi with a smile. “I’d just like to speak with the bride for a moment before we begin. She’ll be right out.” She stood up from the desk and gestured at the exit, where Eunji was waiting for them.

“Of course--” tried Molly, backing up towards the exit. “But Ginny, make sure you mention--”

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Choi dismissively. Hermione suppressed a chuckle and stepped through the open door. “Now dear,” she heard Mrs. Choi say from behind her, “let’s begin with what you _don’t_ like…” 

_

After an hour in the waiting room, where Molly consumed three glasses of champagne without losing the sour look on her face, the group headed to a large warehouse on the ground floor of the building. The space brimmed with rows and rows of beautiful fabrics, hung from clothing racks, the walls, and the ceiling in a glowing cascade of every shade and texture imaginable. There was a sugary aroma in the air, and Hermione saw that the large windows had been charmed to display a sunny meadow. 

Hermione and Molly trailed after an enthusiastic Ginny, who was gushing over the different patterns which Mrs. Choi held up in front of her body. A charmed quill silently catalogued Ginny’s reactions and scribbled them into a notepad that floated beside them.

Hermione searched for a topic that might keep Molly’s attention off of them. “It’s kind of cold today, isn’t it?” 

“If it’s cold _now_ , can you imagine how cold it’ll be in January or February when the wedding takes place?” 

“Oh, that’s not what I meant--”

“Ginevra is so headstrong,” said Molly sadly. “The way she is, she’s going to choose a sleeveless dress just to spite me.”

“I don’t think--” tried Hermione. 

“Why doesn’t she understand I just want what’s best for her?” she sighed, a solemn expression on her face. Hermione felt a twinge of sympathy. Molly had been bursting with excitement since the engagement was announced. The constant arguing with Ginny was slowly diminishing her enthusiasm, and Hermione felt guilty that she hadn’t been able to mediate. “Could you talk to her?”

Hermione dragged her palm over a patch of tulle displayed on a nearby shelf. She rubbed the soft fabric in between her fingers, feeling Molly’s eyes on her. “I think Ginny has a vision of what she wants for this wedding,” she said after a minute.

“I know she does,” said Molly, “but that doesn’t mean there aren’t other things she needs to take into account. She’s so determined to figure it out all on her own, she won’t listen to anyone else’s advice, no matter how good.”

“But if she’s happy, isn’t that what matters?” said Hermione quietly. She held in a breath, waiting for Molly to snap at her. When she didn’t, Hermione chanced a glance at her. Molly was looking down thoughtfully, twisting her wedding ring in her fingers. Hermione offered her a smile, and slowly, Molly answered with one. 

“You’re not wrong, Hermione,” she murmured. “You’ll understand this when you have children of your own, but it’s so hard to want what’s best for them and know that won’t always be their choice.”

Hermione nodded in understanding. “I think your kids have good heads on their shoulders,” she said, letting go of the tulle. Ginny was a good distance away, but they could hear her exclaim loudly whenever she found something that pleased her. 

“And some _thick_ heads, too,” chuckled Molly. She paused a moment before continuing. “After everything that’s happened, I can’t help but worry too much. Especially with Ronald and how dangerous his job is. But you're so thoughtful, Hermione. You can reason with him in ways that I can’t, and I appreciate that.”

Hermione looked at her from the corner of her eye. She’d been lulled into a false sense of security, but Molly’s mention of Ron’s name in _that tone_ wrecked that feeling instantly. Hermione’s heart started beating faster, and she tasted metal on her tongue.

“Hermione? Can I talk to you?” said Molly.

“Don’t you want to help Ginny with the fabrics?”

“I do, but like you said, she has her own vision. I’m going to try to give her space to come to me when she needs me,” said Mrs. Weasley, waving a hand in Ginny’s direction. “Anyway, you know that I consider you family, don’t you? We all do. It’s been awhile since you’ve come to the Burrow on Saturdays, I hope that you didn’t feel left out for some reason.”

Hermione shifted uncomfortably. “I’ve just had so much work to do.”

“I understand that, Hermione. All you children work so much,” she said, giving Hermione a warm smile. “You, Ron and Harry have been working hard since you’ve been so little, and I know in my heart that it was more than you ever should.” She sighed. “You had heavy responsibilities on your shoulders, but that time has passed now. You shouldn’t lose sight of what’s important.”

“I think we’re all trying to readjust, in a way,” said Hermione. She heard genuine concern in Molly’s voice, and wondered if she was being too defensive.“It’s been an upward climb.”

“Making time for family should always be a priority,” said Molly. “When it comes to Harry and Ginny, I can sleep peacefully at night. They have each other to lean on, and I trust him to take care of her. But you and Ron are a different matter.” 

Hermione chewed on her bottom lip nervously. “Ron and I are fine, Mrs. Weasley, you don’t have to worry too much about us,” she said, choosing her words carefully. 

“A mother always worries, Hermione,” she said softly. “And you know that my son is in love with you.”

Hermione’s expression sobered. “Ron understands that we’re only good friends,” she said firmly, trying to keep a lid on her exasperation. “I hope everyone else in the family understands that too.”

Molly’s stare sharpened Hermione’s uneasiness, and she took a step backward, itching to put an end to the conversation. 

“But you’ve never been _just_ good friends, have you?” asked Molly, stepping closer. Hermione paused, struggling not to turn away. “We all knew you’d end up together someday.”

“You can’t possibly know that, Mrs. Weasley,” said Hermione. “Ron and I’s relationship is between Ron and I.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Hermione,” she pleaded. “I just want every single one of you to be happy, and it pains me to see you fighting something so beautiful. You’ve spent all these years together, do you really want to throw that away?”

Hermione exhaled sharply. _Why is this so hard for them_? She wanted to turn around, to flee, to _scream_ at them all -- she wanted to make them understand how exhausted, and how alienated, their expectations made her feel. 

She wanted them to understand that they were pushing her away. 

But she couldn’t force understanding, she knew that. 

What she could do, Hermione decided, was to draw a line in this conversation. “I don’t mean to be blunt, Molly but I’m kind of tired of having a childhood crush be treated as some kind of life sentence.”

Molly flinched. “That’s uncalled for, Hermione. You know very well that’s not what I meant.”

“Maybe not,” said Hermione, fighting back the apology that almost left her mouth. “But Ron and I just aren’t right for each other. I’m sure he’ll meet somebody special.” 

“Every relationship has its challenges,” said Molly, “but you’ve gone through so much together, and Ron believes you can turn things around. He _wants_ to.”

“But _I_ don’t want to,” interrupted Hermione. “Ron and I have hurt each other every time we tried to make a relationship work.”

“And you can’t try again?” she pleaded. “Love is about strength, Hermione. If you can just push through, the reward will be incredible. I’m just trying to give you some motherly advice, my dear.”

“I appreciate your intentions, but it’s not your place,” she replied. “Frankly, I’ve felt like your family has tried to push me and Ron together for years. I’m not trying to be cruel, or to break his heart, but feelings can _change,_ and I’ve made no secret that mine have. I just don’t love Ron like that.”

 _Am I the villain here?_ Hermione asked herself. Because she understood the iciness in Molly’s eyes -- she understood the powerlessness of being unable to give someone you love what they wanted. “So you’ve toyed with my son’s heart for years, and now that you’ve decided to change your mind, you’re throwing him to the curb?” she said icily. “Maybe I misjudged your character, Hermione.”

“I don’t owe Ron, or anyone else, my romantic love and affection,” said Hermione angrily. “Molly, I’ve thought of you as a second mother at times, but that doesn’t mean you can judge my character’ based on what I can give you.” 

“You’re purposefully misunderstanding me, Hermione.” 

“I don’t think I am,” said Hermione in a low voice. “I don’t want to have this discussion again with you, or anyone else, so I’ll say this for the last time. I’m not going to be with Ron, I don’t _want_ to be with Ron, and I’m sorry if that’s hard for you to deal with, but we all lived through much harder things, don’t you think?”

Molly’s gaze burned into her. Hermione shivered, but refused to look away. 

After a long moment, Molly said, “We should find Ginny.” 

“Let’s do that, then.”

Molly held her stare for another beat, then stepped away without waiting for Hermione to follow. 

When she disappeared around the corner, Hermione gasped, feeling like she’d finally kicked to the surface after tumbling into the ocean. She pressed a hand to her chest and willed herself to calm down. _Night, gods, unbowed, unafraid, captain,_ she whispered under breath.

 _Her love has conditions,_ she thought, remembering Draco’s barely audible whispers. 

Every love has conditions --- Hermione knew that with as much certainty as she knew that her own ability to love was restricted, no matter how much she tried to get past her own limits.

But some loves were priced too high, and even if she could afford to pay, she didn’t think she’d want to. Not when she had to stifle her soul, and not for people that looked at her unflinching as they asked her to. 

She continued taking deep breaths. It didn’t take long for her heart to slow, but she still felt a burning under her skin. She wasn’t sure that the feeling would persist -- but for the moment, it was enough to carry her. It was enough for her expression to soften when she finally found Ginny, and it was enough to look at Molly’s face without flinching. 

It was enough.

_

When they arrived at the restaurant, Hermione waved her wand to dry off the spots of clothing she couldn’t keep out of the rain. Ginny did the same, shivering from the cold but looking happy, still riding on the high of a successful morning.

“Come on,” she said, pulling Hermione to the line at the reception desk. A few other people were sitting on benches scattered around the hall, waiting for their tables to be ready. 

“Hey, did my mum seem weird to you?” said Ginny. “She was supposed to have lunch with us, but she bailed.” 

Hermione looked down at her feet. “I don’t think your mum was being weird.”

Ginny hummed. “Maybe she finally realized how much work it is to plan a wedding and gave up on the whole thing. Do you think she’ll back off now?” She smirked at Hermione knowingly.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” said Hermione, “but I _did_ manage to distract her today.”

“That you did,” said Ginny, giving her a satisfied smile. “You're a great maid of honor. I knew you’d be, and Harry agreed, even if you haven’t sorted whatever your issue is with each other.”

“Harry and I are fine,” lied Hermione. _Even if we’ve been successfully avoiding each other for weeks now._ “Let’s not talk about it, alright? Let’s have lunch, and you can tell me all about the designs that you and Mrs. Choi came up with, like I know you want to.”

“Fine,” sang Ginny. “But you’ll have to figure it out with Harry soon, because I refuse to have bad energy at my wedding. Merlin knows there’ll already be plenty of that from those vultures that’ll show up just to hunt for gossip.” 

“Maybe if you kept the ceremony to family and friends--”

Ginny scoffed. “ _Please_. I’m marrying Harry Potter,” she said. “I don’t mind it, but sometimes I wish my life was more like yours.”

“Like mine?” 

“You’re the definition of low profile,” snickered Ginny. “We never know what’s going on with you. Harry says you’re barely at home anymore, and we don’t have a clue where you disappear to. Not even the press can find you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being private.”

Ginny arched a brow. “It just makes people want to know more.”

“It makes _you_ want to know more,” chuckled Hermione. 

Ginny shrugged wryly, looking away from Hermione to smile at the receptionist. Hermione saw her eyes widen in recognition. 

Just like that, less than two minutes later, they were sitting at a table for two. Hermione scanned her surroundings; the restaurant was swarming with a mix of business types and ritzy couples with the galleons for an overpriced meal. She frowned when she saw a man sitting alone a couple of tables down from them, his head bent to check something on his large camera. 

“Ah, for Merlin’s sake,” she swore. “Is there a photographer in here?”

“What?” said Ginny, turning on her chair to follow her gaze. Her eyes widened. “How could they possibly know we’d come here?”

“I have no idea,” muttered Hermione. She caught the man shifting on his chair, pointing his camera in a completely different direction. Her heart fell into her stomach when she found the subjects of his attention. “Oh, he’s not here for us.”

“No?” said Ginny distractly, already focused on the menu. “Who then?”

“Never mind,” said Hermione. 

Ginny set the menu down and frowned before turning around in her chair to look. Hermione blushed, hoping they hadn’t seen her. “Draco Malfoy and Daphne Greengrass,” muttered Ginny. “Is it awful that I wish I could steal her entire closet? Look at that dress! She always looks like a million galleons.” 

“She probably _is_ worth that much,” said Hermione, signaling for the waiter. “She’s really beautiful.”

“She is. It’s a shame she has terrible taste in wizards,” scoffed Ginny. She paused when the waiter arrived. Hermione was feeling too jittery to pay attention to the menu, so she rattled off the same dish as her. When he left with their orders, Ginny continued. “Do you think they look good together?” 

“I don’t have an opinion.”

“Everyone has an opinion,” retorted Ginny. “She does soften Malfoy up in a way, doesn’t she? I don’t like that tosser, but I can’t deny they make quite a sight together.” She arched a brow when she noticed Hermione’s grimace. “Why do you look so annoyed? You’re the one who went off on me the last time I complained about him.”

“I hardly went off on you,” snapped Hermione. “I just said he had a right to be anywhere he wanted, which is not untrue.” 

“That may be the case,” said Ginny. “But you can’t deny that it was weird seeing you defend him.”

Hermione sighed. “I wasn’t defending him, Ginny,” she said. “Can we not talk about this?”

“Want to tell me about your bloke instead?”

“Definitely not,” said Hermione. Ginny scowled at her, but didn’t press, which she was grateful for. 

She could feel his gaze on her, like fire, hot on her back. She had to grip at her knees to anchor herself, fighting off the urge to look back at him. She didn’t know if she’d be able to stop, if she started.

Involuntarily, when she was near him, her anger seemed to slip through her fingers -- it’d wash over her like ocean water, then dry off as quickly as wet skin under the burning sun. 

“Are you listening to me?” said Ginny, sounding amused. 

“Of course I am,” she lied. “I was just thinking that I need to go to the loo, so I’ll be right back.”

She ignored Ginny’s suspicious look, then stood up, purposefully choosing the side that would keep her the farthest away from their table. Before she pushed open the door to the ladies’ room, she chanced a quick glance in their direction. 

Draco had his back to her, his shoulders set tight. But Daphne’s sharp eyes were pinned on Hermione -- she lifted her lips in a coy smile, and Hermione rushed through the door. 

Inside, she locked herself into a stall and sat down, leaning back and letting her head hit the wall behind her. Not a bone in her body believed that if you wished for something, the universe would give it to you -- but in that moment, Hermione closed her eyes and just _hoped_ that when she walked out, they’d have gone home. 

It didn’t surprise her when she heard the sound of the door open, and heels clicking loudly against the tiles. There was no doubt in her mind who it was. 

Hermione stalled, straining her ears for any indication that the coast was clear. Instead, there was nothing but piercing silence, and a glimpse of dark red heels in the crack between the door and wall. _Might as well get this over with._ She exhaled a deep breath and stood up, flushing the toilet.

When she stepped out of the stall, Daphne was leaning against the sink, her arms crossed over her chest and lips twisted in a smirk. Hermione kept her gaze on the mirror and turned on the tap, washing her hands. She ignored the eyes tracking her, drying her hands on a towel before walking to the door. Predictably, the knob didn’t turn. 

“Is this the point when I grab my wand?”

“Merlin,” chuckled Daphne. “Do you understand the concept of diplomacy? Your first instinct is to duel?” 

“There’s nothing diplomatic about cornering someone inside of a loo,” snapped Hermione. 

“I just want to chat,” she said appeasingly. “I won’t take too much of your time.”

“Do you understand the concept of _asking_?”

“I would’ve, if you hadn’t locked yourself inside of the stall for five straight minutes,” she said, pursing her lips. “But alas, I work with what I’m given.”

“What do you want, Daphne?”

Daphne stepped away from the sink and closer to Hermione. “It’s not my typical approach to be so straight-forward, but I’ve got a feeling that you don’t like to play the guessing game, so I’ll just come out and say it,” she said coolly. “Are you and Draco together?” 

Hermione’s answer was immediate. “No.” Daphne’s smile grew. “ _Y_ _ou’re_ his girlfriend.”

“I am,” nodded Daphne. “Which is why I wanted to know, because if you _are_ together, then we’ll have to do something about how absolutely careless you’ve both been--”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Daphne,” she snapped. “And more than that, I don’t know why you think that I’m going to stand here and let you interrogate me. I can easily take down your locking charm if I have to, but have the decency to do it yourself.”

Daphne tipped her head back. “I see why he likes you,” she murmured. “I’m not going to keep you if you don’t want to be here.” She took her wand out from inside her sleeve, then unlocked the door. “Listen, Hermione, I really just want to help. I’m not a bad person.”

“I didn’t say you were,” muttered Hermione. The warmth in Daphne’s eyes was successfully disarming her, and she wondered if it was intentional. “Shouldn’t you have this conversation with him?”

“Except he’s the most closed off wizard I’ve ever met?” she snickered. “And I’m my father’s daughter, so I know when I’m not getting anything out of a man. They think witches are the experts at mind games, but they’re the ones who invented the rules. And as much as I don’t want to waste my energy on this, Draco is a good friend of mine.”

Hermione swallowed audibly. 

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” continued Daphne. “But I’ll give you the same warning I gave Draco, and believe me, it comes from a good place.”

“That’s not necessary,” said Hermione.

“Except it really is,” she cackled. “Because you’re not being subtle, Hermione. I’ve crossed paths with you twice, and even if I hadn’t heard what you were saying, the way you were standing was enough to let me know you’re more intimate than you’d like us to believe.”

If she were being honest with herself, Hermione knew that she couldn’t hide her feelings when she was around him. She didn’t think Draco saw it, most of the time, so it surprised her how clear it seemed to be, for other people. 

Or maybe Daphne was just too perceptive, too in tune with what was happening around her.

“We don’t--” Hermione tried.

Daphne put a hand to stop her. “A rumor in the Wizarding world is never a rumor. It’s a _match_ , and it can set houses on fire,” she said in a rough voice. “I fucking hate fires, and I fucking hate having to put them out.” she paused. “Pardon my language.” 

The corner of Hermione’s mouth twitched, and when she saw Daphne do the same, a giggle escaped. Soon, they were both laughing. Hermione pressed her hand to her mouth, but her eyes were crinkling at the corners. 

Daphne’s laugh burst out of her, loud and sort of scratchy, like it was clawing its way out of her throat, accompanied by snorts, which only amused Hermione further. 

“Did you just apologize for cursing?” asked Hermione incredulously. 

“Merlin, I know,” sighed Daphne, rolling her eyes. “My deranged grandmother is turning in her grave right now, yelling herself hoarse that I’m ruining my family’s reputation. You’re not going to tell _the Daily Prophet_ that a Greengrass behaves in such an unladylike manner, are you, Hermione?”

Hermione smiled. “I think they’re much more interested about your epic romance with the bloke waiting for you at the table. Won’t he be wondering where you went?”

“I don’t think he’s too concerned with where _I_ am,” she said, arching a brow. “Once a certain witch walked through the door, it’s like I wasn’t even there anymore.”

“Maybe you should break up with him,” said Hermione. “No girl should be treated like that.”

Daphne waved a hand. “I don’t mind,” she said flippantly. “I don’t need a bloke’s attention to survive. It’d be nice if I didn’t have to repeat everything I say, though.” 

Hermione bit her lip. “I should go, Ginny must think I died here.”

“You should,” she nodded. “But you also should _talk to him_. He’s not in the best place, right now. He wouldn’t tell me, and he’s done a good job of hiding it, but I notice the little things. It’s a witch’s job to read her man, isn’t it?”

Hermione looked at her skeptically. “I doubt that it is.”

“It’s what I was taught,” said Daphne, “which is whatever, but I noticed, and he’s not fine. If he was an adult, he’d just talk to you first, but he’s not, so he won’t. And even if I can’t help but notice that you’re far too good for him, he’s still my friend--”

“Daphne,” sighed Hermione.

“So I’ll say it anyway,” she went on. “If you really feel something for him, then _talk_ to him. He’s already impossible to be around when he’s in a good mood. When he’s like this? He’s lucky I haven’t hexed off anything important.” 

Liking Daphne was too easy, and she wanted to tell her that it wasn’t her job to argue Draco’s case for him. She was amazed that someone like her -- wealthy, powerful, beautiful -- would take the time that she could be using to meet with the Minister, or feed orphans, or cure cancer, to help a friend with one of his messes.

She wondered if Draco knew how lucky he was.

“You’re a good one, Daphne,” she settled for saying. She didn’t linger, turning to head out of the loo.

When she opened the door and stepped back into the din of the main room, Hermione made sure not to look at Draco, even when she felt his eyes fixed on her. The photographer had left, and the restaurant had emptied somewhat, but she couldn’t disregard Daphne’s warning.

So she didn’t look at him, not as she rushed to her seat, not as she made her excuses to Ginny and forced herself to be present throughout the meal, listening and trying to be a better friend than she usually was. She didn’t look at him once in the half an hour that passed.

But she was still conscious of him, too in sync with this eerie pull between the two of them. So she noticed, against her own will, when he and Daphne began to stand up from their table.

And maybe she had already made the decision without realizing it, because she waited for Ginny to pause between sentences before rushing out. “Are you done with your food?”

“Oh yes,” said Ginny, sounding confused. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes, I think it’s going to rain again,” she said, leaning back from the table. Ginny frowned, but followed suit. When she turned away to put on her coat, Hermione dug out a quill and a slip of parchment from her purse. 

“What are you doing?”

“Oh, I remembered something for work, so I’m writing it down before I forget,” the lie left her lips easily. Hermione slipped the note inside her jacket pocket before Ginny could glimpse at its contents. “Let’s go?”

“You’re an odd one, Hermione,” teased Ginny. “You’re just plain odd. It’s off-putting sometimes.”

“You still haven’t gotten used to it?” said Hermione good-naturedly. She looked over Ginny’s shoulder to check if Draco was where she needed him -- he was talking to the hostess, Daphne waiting a few inches away. 

Hermione quickened her pace, brushing past Ginny and reaching the desk in a couple of strides. Once she was close enough, she roughly knocked her shoulder against his arm, feigning a startled gasp. 

When Draco turned to her with a confused expression, she slipped the note inside his coat pocket. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there,” she said loudly. He frowned at her, and she shot a pointed look at his pocket. “Are you okay? I didn’t hit you on the head.”

“I’m fine,” he said, still looking confused. Then he looked from her to Daphne, who was biting off a smirk. “Look where you’re going, Granger,” he snapped, sounding weak. 

“Do you want me to bow at your feet in apology, Malfoy?” said Hermione, conscious of Ginny’s presence beside her.

“How about we don’t start a scene in a restaurant?” said Daphne, approaching them. “She said sorry, Draco, and the bill’s settled. So let’s go.”

Draco seemed reluctant -- he looked at her down his nose, something in his eyes that looked like warmth, and longing. And something else. Something a little darker. 

It made her want to crawl under his skin. 

Hermione silently praised the restaurant’s low lights for masking her flush. 

“Congratulations on the engagement, Weaselette,” said Draco, tearing his gaze away from her to Ginny, the hostility seeming more genuine. 

“I have a name, ferret,” snapped Ginny, her lips curling into a sneer. “Are you done harassing my friend? My fiancé is just a floo call away, and I bet we could arrange a cell in Azkaban for you.”

Draco let out a low chuckle. “Threatening a wizard with jail time because he displeased you? Seems a little low for you. Or maybe your brother taught you that one. Does your entire family have to get by on one pathetic brain?”

“Oh, come on, Draco,” snapped Daphne, pulling at his arm. “Congratulations on the engagement, Ginny. He meant it. I’m sure it’ll be a beautiful wedding.”

“I doubt that he did, but thank you,” snarled Ginny. Daphne forcibly pulled Draco out the door, and Hermione exhaled a relieved sigh. She was glad the front desk was sufficiently far away from the rest of the restaurant that they hadn’t attracted unnecessary attention. “I can’t bloody stand that git.” 

Hermione turned to thank the hostess for the meal before gesturing towards the door. “You both reverted to your childhood selves right there,” she said, trying to sound neutral.

“Do you think his congratulations were sincere?” said Ginny in an irritated tone. “And you were the one arguing with him before I showed up. He was looking down at you, Hermione.”

“He’s so much taller than me, I don’t think he can do much else,” said Hermione, pushing open the door. “But no, he probably wasn’t being sincere, because Malfoy can be such a git, but--” She sighed. “We don’t actually know him that well, do we? And it’s been so long since school.”

“Not that long,” said Ginny, following Hermione out of the restaurant. The rain had stopped, but the heavy grey clouds suggested it wouldn’t be long before they returned. “Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater. And I don’t care if Daphne Greengrass is stylish as heck and that her family likes to play neutral. If you’re socializing with the likes of Malfoy, you’re just as bad in my book.”

Hermione felt her stomach turn sour. “You really believe that?”

Ginny shrugged. “You are who you surround yourself with." Hermione didn’t say anything as they walked down the street. But inside, she was whirling -- she refused to feel shame, but she felt more than a little fear.

She knew she couldn’t keep her relationship with Draco secret forever. She wondered if she was ready to face the consequences, when it got exposed to the world. She wondered if he’d hold her hand through it. 

But when she weighed it against the affection she felt for him, against the _need_ that engulfed her whenever he was around, her fear didn’t seem as overwhelming. 

She could face Ginny, if she had to. She could face Harry and Ron, even. She could sit them down and make them understand, because she loved them, and they were hers to keep. 

But Draco was incognito -- she wasn’t certain of much, when it came to him. And she wouldn’t be sure until she looked him in the eye and refused to let him lie to her.

_

Muggle London was wholly overtaken by the storm that had been brewing since early morning. Raindrops splashed heavily against the pavement, and gusts of wind sent Hermione’s hair into disheveled chaos, half of the curls sticking to her face while the rest fought to remain in the knot she’d tied them into. 

She had apparated as close as she could, but despite her umbrella putting up a valiant battle, it had disassembled into a heap of wire and plastic by the time she reached Hatchards Piccadilly. 

She looked around, cursing under her breath -- there were few people on the street, but a staff worker had an open view of her through the storefront window. Drying herself magically would be too risky. So instead, she threw the mangled remains of her umbrella into a bin and stepped into the warmth of the bookstore, knowing she made a less than attractive sight. 

“Can I help you?” greeted a young man in a strong Yorkshire accent. Hermione glanced at his name tag and smiled.

“No, thank you Doug, I know my way around the store,” she replied. “Wait, actually. I’m meeting a friend here, I don't know if he arrived yet but he’s kind of hard to miss. He’s really tall, has platinum blond hair. Is probably wearing black?”

His face lit up with recognition. “Oh yes, he arrived about half an hour ago. Last I saw him, he was on the third floor.”

“Thank you,” she said, hastily smoothing down her sweater and arranging her curls around her shoulders.

Doug nodded, and Hermione began to make her way up the stairs. She’d visited the bookstore plenty of times -- it had a comforting musty smell, and the books overcrowding the space felt like arms wrapping around her body. She skimmed a hand over the brown wooden railing as she made her way up, almost wanting to linger, pick up a novel or two. 

But her heart wasn’t in it -- it had fallen into a relentless rhythm inside of her chest, and it beat faster the closer she got to him. 

He wasn’t hard to spot at all. The third floor was thankfully empty, except two teenage girls giggling under their breaths as they traded magazines. Hermione paused on the top step, her eyes pinned on the lone figure of the boy she wanted. 

Draco lifted his eyes from the book he was holding, meeting her gaze from across the room. His lips curled into a hesitant smile.

And just like that, her anger vanished like a candle’s flame.

She just wanted to be at peace with him. 

_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing the Hermione and Molly scene in this chapter was one of my most cathartic moments in this story. I like to think it illustrates a bit of how healing can look like :) I hope you like it as much as I do.
> 
> I had a super busy week where I only got a few moments to write, but the feedback motivated me to do it whenever I could. Thank you guys so much for always commenting! This chapter and the next one were actually supposed to be only one, but it got so long I had to split it. Considering that and how much I seriously appreciate the love this story is getting, I'm doing a double update this week. 
> 
> I'll be posting chapter 23 tomorrow night! (I'll be answering all of the last chapter's comments tomorrow as well, I read every single one SEVERAL times, but time is kind of tight this week) I hope you guys enjoy the weekend surprise <3


	23. Hearts Taking Roots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter edited by the most amazing beta @jeparlepasfrancais

“You're trying not to tell him you love him, and you're trying to choke down the feeling, and you're trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and **you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you've discovered something you don't even have a name for.** ” - You Are Jeff, Richard Siken

* * *

Hermione balled her hands into fists, feeling awkwardness flutter inside of her as she slowly moved closer to him. When she stopped beside him in front of a large shelf, Draco swiftly put away the book he was holding and cleared his throat. “Hello, Granger.” 

Hermione unclenched her fists and rubbed her palms on her jeans, trying to get rid of the mixture of raindrops and nervous sweat. “How are you?” she tried. “Doug said you’ve been here for half an hour.” 

Draco frowned. “Who’s Doug?”

“He works here.”

“Well, Doug should mind his own business. Do Muggles just tell on their customers like that? That’s appalling behavior,” he said, sounding offended. Hermione smiled at the posh tone of his voice.

“He was just being nice to me,” she said. “Did you find the store okay?”

“Yes, Granger, I’m clearly not an imbecile,” he snapped. “Sorry, fuck. I didn’t mean to be a git. I’m just--”

“Uncomfortable here?” she guessed.

“That’s not it, either,” he sighed. She took a step back, but his body followed her like a magnet. Hermione shot him a pointed look, and he grimaced, moving a couple of inches away from her. “What happened to you?” he said, running his eyes down her body.

She exhaled. “My umbrella gave in and I got drenched.”

“Why didn’t you dry yourself?” 

She wanted so badly to reach out and smooth the crease between his brows. The constant urge to touch him drove her mad. “What do you think? People would’ve seen my wand,” she said, more harshly than she intended.

“Come here, then.” 

Before she could protest, he disappeared behind a row of shelves. When she followed him, he snapped his head around to check if they were completely alone before reaching his hand into his jacket for his wand. He muttered a spell under his breath, and Hermione felt a gust of warm air dry her top to bottom. She only realized she’d been shivering when it completely subsided. 

“Better?” asked Draco. He reached out and ran his hand up and down her arm. The shiver that struck her body had more to do with his touch than the cold. “Don’t know if I can do anything about your hair, though.’

She scowled. “It’s just wet.”

“It’s a bloody mess.” 

Hermione took a sharp inhale of breath. “Draco Malfoy--” 

He silenced her by pressing a kiss to her damp curls. “You’re absolutely beautiful, Hermione Granger,” he said in a raspy whisper. “No question about it.” 

She allowed herself a moment to breath him in, feeling his familiar scent engulf her. Being so close to him was too tempting, so Hermione abruptly stepped away, letting his arms fall as she turned to face a wooden shelf, reaching with a shaky hand for the first book in her line of sight.

“I’m not mad at you anymore,” she said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean that things are okay. Because they really aren’t. I’m just not good at being angry at people, so don’t flatter yourself.”

She heard him exhale a slow breath. “I’m sorry, Granger.”

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. Draco was studying her uncertainly. He looked genuine, but something was still turning uncomfortably inside of her. “Do you even know what you’re apologizing for?”

“For being a jealous git?”

“Yeah, sure,” she said. “But also for the fact that we apparently have no idea how to talk to each other?”

He gave her an incredulous look. “Sometimes _all_ we do is talk, Granger. We talk all the time.”

“About nothing, apparently,” she muttered under her breath. “Because there are things you’re not telling me about, and you close up the second you start to.”

“Fine, that’s true. I might’ve done that. I didn’t play fair when I’m angry,” said Draco. “It’s a fucking character flaw. I have a bunch of those, if you haven’t noticed.” His forcibly self-deprecating tone didn’t amuse her, and Hermione gave him a blank look. He groaned audibly. “I apologize, Hermione. I’ll try to do better. And, you know, I really don’t give a fuck about Weasley, I was just pissed I didn’t hear it from you.”

Hermione shifted, looking at the book she was still clutching in her hands. “Harry did that to me more than once, and it hurt me every time. I didn’t realize I’d done that to you,” she admitted. “I guess we both have some glaring character flaws, Draco.”

He scoffed. “I’d trade mine for yours, anytime.” 

Hermione sighed, then put the book back on the shelf, reaching for another one. She didn’t even register the words of the summary in the back cover, but she didn’t feel confident enough to face him just yet. 

“Are you going to apologize too?” he said, sounding amused.

And maybe it was because she had never reached this part -- when you flung open the door, when you laid your cards on the table -- but she realized that she didn’t know how to. 

“I _am_ sorry,” she said, gaze still fixed on the book. “But you know, thinking about it, I just wonder why it didn’t occur to me to just tell you.”

“You always know, Hermione. So why don’t you just come out and say it?”

She placed the book back on the shelf, straightening her shoulders before turning to face him. Draco’s eyes shone with concern. “I didn’t think you’d want me to.”

He looked taken aback. “How could you say that?” he whispered. “Fuck, are you crying?”

“I’m not,” she muttered defensively, blinking to clear the moisture from her eyes. “You can be emotional without crying, jackass.”

Predictably, he began to laugh. “I’m doing this all wrong, aren’t I?” 

Hermione sniffed. “Listen. Here’s what I figure. We both began this--” She waved a hand between them. “ _Thing_. And we never really defined it, or talked about what your expectations are, or what _my_ expectations are.” Her voice trailed off when she noticed how he was standing. He had shoved both hands in his pockets, while staring stubbornly at his shoes. “Why are you being so awkward?”

He hesitated, before muttering, “Are you asking me to be your boyfriend?”

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. “You kind of already have a girlfriend, don’t you?” she said, failing to control the irritation in her voice. His face softened.

“You know that’s not true.”

“Do I?” she said pointedly. “You told me Daphne’s gay, and that you have some sort of deal. But you never really explained the situation, and I never asked because I didn’t want you to run.”

“I wasn’t going to bloody run, Granger,” he snapped. “And I’ll bloody tell you, if you really want me to.”

“You’ll tell me everything? You won’t lie?” 

Draco took a step forward, bending his head to meet her gaze directly. “I won’t lie, Hermione,” he said in a steady voice.

And maybe she was foolish for it, but she believed him. 

“Okay, then,” said Hermione hesitantly, wondering if she was being lenient. The ease with which she trusted his words felt like a trap, but when she looked at him, she saw nothing but sincerity. “We’ll talk about it.”

Draco’s eyes burnt into hers for a long moment, like he was feeling out whether she really meant it before reacting. Hermione waited for him to move closer, itching to reach out and dissolve the remaining tension between them. 

He took a step forward. When there was just an inch of space between them, Draco lifted his hands to cup the sides of her face. He placed a slow, lingering kiss on one cheek. Her body moved of its own accord. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, searching for his lips. 

Just before they touched, he tilted his face away, her kiss brushing the corner of his mouth. Hermione frowned, feeling more than a little hurt, and leaned back. “What’s wrong?” she asked, her chest tightening. 

He looked raw, his eyes clouded by something she couldn’t quite reach. The seconds seemed to drag around them. She tried her hardest to be patient, to drown out the voice in her head telling her to _demand_ him open up more than just a fraction, her breath getting stuck in her throat.

“Draco,” she said, her voice so quiet it was barely audible. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

He inhaled sharply, his jaw clenching and unclenching. Her grip on his shoulders tightened. _Is this it?_ she asked herself. She didn’t know if she could handle more of this push and pull. She didn’t think she had the strength for it.

“You’re the one who runs away, Hermione,” he said quietly.

“What?” said Hermione, too dumbfounded to feel relieved that he had _said_ something. 

“You don’t need to lie to me,” he continued, jerking his head back to give her a view of his troubled expression. “It was easy for you, wasn’t it? To leave the flat. To turn away from me on the staircase. To always find a reason to pull away from me.”

Something inside of her cracked. “It wasn’t easy,” she said weakly.

His smile lacked humor, like he was softening a blow. “But you did it anyway?” he said. “I don’t think I could do it, you know? I’m too stubborn. But it wasn’t--” he paused, trying to gather his thoughts. “Granger, I can’t have you running away from me all the time.”

She tensed. Her first thought was to deny it, but her broken parts were glaring, and she couldn’t bring herself to lie to him about it. After a moment, she whispered, “Alright, I won’t,” because there wasn’t much else she could say. She’d made the choice to believe him, and he’d have to do the same. “Alright.” 

He searched her face, and Hermione waited, hoping he’d found what he was looking for. 

He must’ve. In the blink of an eye, Draco pushed her against the shelves. The books threatened to tumble; she doubted she’d notice if they did, when he was pressing against her body so firmly, his mouth covering hers in a soaring kiss. 

And she let herself be kissed by him. The taste of him, the touch of his hands, the pressure of his body -- it all mixed together until the room around them disappeared, until Hermione felt certain that they were the only people in the universe and she didn’t need anything but their shared breaths, the feeling he carved into her and she carved into him, right back. 

“Excuse me,” someone hollered. “This is a public space!”

 _Goddammit._ Hermione pushed Draco away, her head snapping in the direction of the voice. Doug had his arms folded over his chest. Heat rose to her face and she visibly cringed. “I’m so sorry, Doug.”

And Draco, her favorite moron, released a shameless chuckle. “Fucking disappear, Doug."

“Shut it,” she snapped. Then she said loudly, “We’re leaving.”

“Are you at least going to _buy_ something?”

“We’ll bloody buy something!” snarled Draco. “Can you leave now?” 

Doug gave them another irritated look, then turned around and disappeared down the corner. 

“Oh Merlin,” gasped Hermione, covering her face. “I’m so embarrassed.”

“You think we’re the first people to snog here, Granger?”

“I used to come here with my father when I was a child, Draco. It’s our favorite spot,” she said. “This is the oldest bookstore in Muggle Britain. I just defiled a sacred space with a stupid boy. I can’t believe myself.”

“Oh,” he cooed. “Buck-toothed Granger came here?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Think twice before you say anything.”

His laughter boomed louder. “You’re absolutely beautiful, Hermione Granger. No question about it.”

She rolled her eyes. “So you keep saying,” she muttered. “Let’s get out of here before I kiss you or knock you on the head with a book.” 

Draco continued to laugh as he threw an arm around her shoulders, bending down to smack a kiss on her cheek.

The store was mostly empty, but the few people perusing books glanced at them with mild interest as they passed. For the first time in the longest time, she wasn’t bothered by the attention -- the arm over her shoulder was comforting, and she was nestled into his side, happy and at peace. 

Before they reached the cashier, Draco pulled away. When Hermione opened her mouth to complain, he muttered a rushed “stay here,” and disappeared down the hall. While she waited, she looked through her purse for her wallet. She had just dug it out when Draco reappeared, holding a hand behind his back. “You can wait for me by the door.”

“I have to pay for whatever you’re hiding there, Draco.”

“I’m rich,” he said flatly. “Just go.”

“They aren’t going to accept your galleons.” 

“Really? Thanks for the information, love,” he dead-panned. “I have Muggle money, Granger. Can you just do what I say already?”

“Fine,” she said grudgingly. Hermione walked over to the door, sneaking glances at him, half worried he’d somehow expose them as he went through his purchases. 

But he was all smooth charm. Watching him felt like stumbling into an alternate universe -- the cashier giggled as she processed his payment and wrapped his book in brown paper with a smile. Seeing him interact with a Muggle so naturally, not a hint of discomfort -- it made Hermione’s mind fizzle.

She was still staring in amazement as he swaggered towards her, a satisfied grin on his face. Hermione felt her chest expand. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” she shook her head, then pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. She rose to her tiptoes, blowing in his ear, feeling smug when he shivered. “Race you to the apparition point.” 

She didn’t wait a beat before pushing the door open and running into the storm. She cackled when she heard him curse her name loudly, chasing her, his boots slapping loudly against the puddles of water.

_

Draco didn’t give her time to think before he was onto her, throwing the bag he was holding somewhere behind them before pulling her into a kiss. She giggled against his mouth, but the sound gave way to a moan when he deepened the kiss, his hands sliding down her back. 

It never took too long for heat to rise inside of her when they were together like this. She looped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, rougher, tighter against her body. Wild with the feeling that it still wasn’t enough. 

“Want to go upstairs?” he gasped into her mouth. She nibbled the spot behind his ear, feeling the pressure increase when he ground into her. “Yeah?”

Hermione tore her lips away to press her palms firmly into his chest. She pushed him back until he fell gracelessly on the couch. He gulped audibly, and she reeled under the intensity of his gaze. “I like the way you look at me,” she muttered, sitting on his hips and squeezing him between her legs.

“I like looking at you,” he whispered back in a raspy voice. “I really fucking do.”

She leaned back on his lap and ripped her shirt off. He moved to help her, but she brushed him off and unclasped the bra, letting it fall into the couch. Draco’s jaw clenched and his chest heaved as he observed her, and Hermione let him drink her in, desire pooling in her belly. 

“Hermione Granger.” His voice was almost a growl. 

Her lips curved in a slow, soft smile. “Yeah?”

“You’re absolutely beautiful.”

“No question about it?”

“Not one,” he shook his head, reaching a hand to the back of her neck. He tugged her down until her breasts pressed against his chest. There was something exquisite about the feeling of her nipples rubbing against his shirt, and Hermione moaned, crushing their lips together, operating on pure instinct. 

Draco’s hips hitched upward and she slid a hand between them, and _squeezed,_ his groan making her chest buzz with desire. His hands twisted into her curls until they completely slipped from their knot, falling around her shoulders. 

She didn’t need her wand to mumble the spell to make his shirt disappear, and when his chest was fully exposed, she didn’t hesitate to press slow, wet kisses into his firm skin. She scraped her teeth across one nipple and he shivered underneath her, the hold in her hair tightening. 

There was something so satisfying about watching him overcome with desire, breathing hard, flush dancing down his neck to the skin just above his belt. “Ah, fucking bloody hell, Hermione,” he groaned when she pushed her hand harder against his cock. A low chuckle escaped her lips. “You like teasing me?” 

“You’re too easy to rile up,” said Hermione, reaching for his mouth again. She frowned when he leaned away. “What?”

“I don’t like to be teased,” he said through gritted teeth. Hermione almost rolled his eyes, but she was startled by the swift movement of his body. Before she could fully register what was happening, he picked her up by the waist and turned them around, dropping her roughly into the couch. 

She opened her mouth to protest, but a loud groan escaped when he caught her nipple between his teeth, sending pleasure rippling through her. 

Her head hit the back of the couch as his mouth made the slow journey down her torso, lingering in all the spots he already knew so intimately. Her head was in a haze and her entire body vibrated with desire, his lips and tongue setting every inch of skin he touched on fire.

In a moment, he shed off her jeans and buried his head between her thighs, and Hermione clamped a hand over her mouth, unable to wholly suppress a moan.. Draco chuckled, brushing his tongue against her in firm strokes. She reached a hand to grip at his hair, the other digging into the fabric of the couch as he placed one of her legs over his shoulder.

He thrust his tongue into her greedly. Her body writhed, so overwhelmed that she didn’t know if she wanted to push into him or pull away. He splayed his palm over her stomach, keeping her still as his tongue circled around her clit. He switched back and forth between gentle coaxing and a harder, insistent pressing against her, and she struggled to keep her body on the cushions, her back arching. 

“Draco--” she groaned, unable to say anything but nonsense as he slipped a finger inside of her, thrusting into the same rhythm of his tongue. 

It was too much. Her heart was threatening to beat out of her chest, and she felt like her entire body was floating above the ground. She pressed her eyelids tight when the vibrations of his groans sent her tipping over the edge. 

She sank into the couch, her body trembling and her breaths coming out as pants. He scraped his teeth over the skin of her inner thigh, easing the sting with soft kisses. 

She let him gently set her leg down, the onslaught of sensations running through her body. She mumbled a complaint when he stood from the couch, opening her eyes to find him unbuckling his pants. His eyes were dark with lust, and Hermione pressed a hand over her racing heart, taking in the unrestrained desire that took over his face completely. 

When he draped his body over hers again, Hermione hiked a leg over his hip, pulling him into a slow, languorous kiss.

“Do I make you feel good?” he whispered. “Tell me.”

“Sure you do,” she breathed out. “You know what would make me feel even better?” she said, grinding into him until he got the hint. His lips parted, his eyes glued to hers as the tip of his cock rubbed against her. 

She dragged her hand to his hips, pulling him the rest of the way in. “Bloody hell,” he groaned, inhaling sharply through his nose. His abs tightened as he bottomed out, and she ran her hand through his hair, pressing kisses to his jaw, his cheek, over the sweat forming on his forehead.

It was the feeling of being so close, the desire that kept boiling and boiling until every patch of skin felt set ablaze. She touched him everywhere she could, and he thrusted into her without reservation, his thumb circling her clit. Her body writhed, the pressure increasing steadily, feeling herself rise higher and higher.

She loved the feeling of him inside of her, burning like lava as he chanted her name like a prayer. He curved a hand behind her hip and lifted her higher, the change in angle making her dig her nails into his back. “Fuck, love,” he hissed. 

She whimpered his name, her head falling back and spine curving upwards. His hand gripped harder and harder, until at last he inhaled sharply, and exhaled her name in a long groan. When they were both spent and quivering, his body sagged into hers. 

They shared exhausted breaths, and he ran a soothing hand through her tangled curls. She didn’t know if he realized it, but he was humming under his breath -- a soft song, not one she knew, but it calmed her nonetheless. 

“Hermione Granger--” he said after a while, his hand still in her hair. 

She groaned. “Oh, for Godric’s sake--”

“You’re absolutely beautiful--”

“Shut your trap up.”

“No question about it,” he finished, sounding way too satisfied with himself.

After everything, she couldn’t believe that was the thing that embarrassed her. “I’m ordering you to drop that immediately.” 

He chuckled. _"_ _N_ _ever._ ”

She lifted her head and caressed his chin, kissing his lips once, then twice, then a third time, then enough times that sound ceased around them, his hold on her hair tightening, desire beginning to simmer between them all over again. Hermione wished she could freeze the moment in time.

She hoped she didn’t have to. She hoped he was right there with her, in body, in spirit, for as long as time allowed. 

_

Draco was procrastinating. 

There were only so many times he could look through the flat’s closet before admitting it to himself, especially considering he only kept a few changes of clothes there. Going off the amused expression on Granger’s face, she was fully aware of it.

But it was her fault, really -- it was practically impossible to muster the motivation to spend an entire evening in the Greengrasses’ company, when he could be wasting more hours with her.

They hadn’t accomplished anything productive the entire day. Granger had put up an admirable fight, but it had been almost too easy to pry her away from work or what only she would call “light reading.”

Instead, they’d spent the day going from the bed to the couch to the kitchen, talking when she stubbornly insisted, and more often, not talking at all. Now, she was sitting on the bed, looking sweet as a dream in one of his dark button-downs, munching on a Honeydukes’ pumpkin pasty and doing an impressive job of mocking him while remaining completely silent. 

When Draco finally dug out the only formal clothing he kept there, she said, “So, what is this thing you’re going to, exactly?”

“It’s this party that Daphne’s father is hosting,” said Draco, putting on a pair of grey slacks. “I don’t know what’s the occasion. Douglass Greengrass is kind of--” He hesitated for a beat, second guessing Granger’s neutral expression. She had been annoyingly blank when he’d told her about Daphne’s parents pressuring them to move forward with their courtship, and he couldn’t help but wonder if she was truly fine with it. “He doesn't say more than what he thinks is necessary. He said he wanted me there, and that was it.”

“Dumbledore used to be like that with Harry, you know? Refusing to give away any information, but always demanding that he be available.” When she noticed him wince, she rushed to say, “I’m not comparing, Draco, for Merlin’s sake. This man is just your pretend girlfriend's father, not your mentor.”

Draco bent his head down to button up his shirt. “Yeah.”

“Do you really want to go?”

“I don’t _want_ to go,” he scoffed. “But our parents believe we’re in a serious courtship. I told you I promised to give her more time to figure her shite out. I’m ending this soon, I promise.”

“And what does a serious courtship entail, exactly?” 

“It’s normal dating, I guess?” he shrugged. “The families are in charge of the details of the engagement, like who gets what, which traditions the couple will follow, how many children they’ll have, vaults, grimoires and other useless shite,” said Draco, looking up to Granger’s baffled stare. 

“Are courtships arranged?” 

“Not in the sense that we have agreements before children are even born, if that’s what you mean,” he said nonchalantly. “Families can _strongly_ suggest certain people interact. But it wouldn’t be a problem if I fell in love with Millicent instead of Daphne. The courtship would be handled by both families either way. You have the freedom to love who you love.”

Hermione shot him a skeptical look. “You can love who you want to love, unless they’re a different blood status, or the same gender?

Draco snickered. “And you have to be really careful not to accidentally fall in love with a second cousin, though that’s been known to happen more often than you’d think,” he said, strangely charmed by the way her nose wrinkled at his words. 

“But a third cousin’s fine?” The tone of her voice made it clear she found the entire ordeal absurd. Draco didn’t disagree, but it didn’t faze him as much as it seemed to her.

“You’d be surprised by what people can excuse when faced with a dwindling community. The Malfoys don’t partake, of course,” he said quickly. “There are magical rituals specific to each family when a wedding date is settled, but for the actual couple, courtships are mostly about pretending to be chaste and pure until marriage, when everyone knows you’re doing less than pure and chaste things out of sight.”

Granger’s eyes narrowed. “Better be no pretending about it, Draco Malfoy.”

A sly smile appeared on his face. Draco dropped his jacket on the floor and slowly swaggered towards the bed, heat slowly surging inside of him as he watched Granger’s gaze fall on his mouth. Her gaze flickered back to his eyes, and she swallowed audibly when he leaned forward, burying his knees on the mattress, her back hitting the sheets as he towered over her, an elbow on each side of her face.

“I’m only doing things of the impure variety with you, love,” he said, right before he kissed her. She released a low groan of pleasure, and Draco deepened the kiss, her hands curling around his neck and pulling him tightly against her. His pulse leaped when her grip tightened, and he stroked her tongue with his.

“Don’t go,” she muttered beneath him. 

_Of course I’m not going_ , thought Draco, his mind buzzing as her hands slipped from his neck, deft fingers ripping his shirt from his pants. He groaned, feeling her nails scrape against his skin, goosebumps spreading all over his body. His cock hardened immediately.

It was hard to think much of anything when he was embraced by her familiar touch. Granger moaned against his mouth, and he wanted so deeply to get lost inside of her, again -- tearing himself away felt like lifting a thousand pounds. 

“No,” she whimpered. “Come back, Draco.”

Draco looked at her with regret. Her lips were swollen, his shirt all wrinkled as it rode up her body, exposing the silky skin of her bare thighs and tempting black lace of her knickers. 

“You’re being very cruel right now,” teased Granger.

“I assure you, love, I’m suffering more than you."

He gave her one last appraising glance before turning away, knowing that if he didn’t cut himself off his resolution would melt away completely. 

He stopped in front of the mirror to readjust his shirt. He snatched his tie from the top of the dresser. “Grey is boring,” said Granger. Draco smiled at his own reflection, listening to her approaching footsteps. 

He didn’t say anything as she grabbed her wand from the bed and stood in front of him, tilting her head before changing the tie from grey to purple. He arched a brow. “Purple, really?”

“It’s _lilac_. It’s my favorite color,” muttered Granger, her lips pursued with concentration as her fingers wove the tie into a knot. “Why? Is it too girly for you?”

He exhaled a huff. “As if I care.”

Granger let him go and sat back on the bed, leaning against the headboard and continuing to watch him. Draco shrugged on his grey suit jacket and checked himself in the mirror, running his fingers through his hair in a lame attempt to fix it. 

He stalled again, pretending to smooth a wrinkle on his suit. “Are you going to stay?”

“Do you want me to?” 

“Give me a break, Granger,” he scoffed, turning to face her. Her gaze was tender, lips slightly curved upwards, all that he wanted, in the flesh.

And he was so grateful -- for this lightness that surrounded them again. He’d extract this memory and place it on a Pensieve, the token of the precise moment that Draco realized he might be more than half in love with her. 

“I’m not going anywhere.”

It was the only reasonable explanation for what he felt, right then. 

_

The ballroom was as pristine as the rest of the Greengrass’ Manor. The walls were stark white, framed by slender pillars with ornate silver capitals, two on each side of the room. It was a relatively small space, but it was brimming with faces he’d recognize anywhere. Half a dozen sharply-dressed elves made circuits with their trays, gleaming silver and covered in hors d'oeuvres. They silently approached the guests and strode away when dismissed. 

In one corner, an elderly man with a long grey beard was expertly playing the piano, his figure shadowed by the low flickering lights. People were gathered in small clusters, nibbling on appetizers and booming with strident laughter. Draco zeroed in on the bar; he would stand out, mingling at this type of event without a drink, so he filled a crystal glass with firewhiskey and looked for someone he could stand to interact with. 

His eyebrows rose when he spotted Theo, who was looking put together in a three-piece suit, his dark hair now shining a vibrant shade of blue. 

Draco approached him. “What’s with the hair?”

“I’m experimenting,” exclaimed Theo, running a hand through his hair. “It’s supposed to wear off in forty-eight hours, but I might stick to the look,” he wiggled his brows. 

“And you thought it’d be a good idea to experiment at a party with _these_ people?” 

Draco inclined his head towards a group of older women, who were staring at them from the other side of the room. Theo blew them a kiss. 

“Please, Mrs. Selwyn’s shamelessly chatting with Mrs. Burke, when everyone knows she’s having an affair with her husband. My hair’s the least scandalous thing at this party,” he said wryly and Draco had to bite back a chuckle. “What’s with the tie?”

Draco looked around to make sure no one was within hearing range. “ _Granger_ was experimenting.”

Theo lit up, but before he could utter a likely inappropriate comment, someone grabbed Draco’s elbow from behind. Daphne leaned in to peck his cheek, then rubbed off the lipstick with her thumb. “Have you made up with her, then?” When neither of them responded, she glared. “I’m going to hex both of you! Don’t go all silent on me now.”

It took Theo exactly three seconds to drop his stoic expression. “So it’s all in the open now?”

“We’re the only two people that know, I’m sure,” said Daphne. “Of course, he didn’t actually _tell_ me. Thankfully I’m too smart to be fooled. But if I’d known that Theo knew--”

Theo grinned proudly. “He told _me."_

Daphne's eyes flashed with genuine hurt. “You told Theo?”

“Weren’t you the one who said we shouldn’t talk about this in public?” pointed out Draco, twirling his still full glass. 

“You can if you’re smart about it,” she murmured. “So, you made up?”

“Are you kidding?” piped up Theo. “He hasn’t sworn once, and he’s almost smiled a couple of times. It’s actually disturbing.”

“I can cuss you out if you’re so eager,” snapped Draco. “I already told you that this is none of your business--”

“What’s none of his business?” asked Pansy, materializing beside Daphne. She looked at them skeptically, her nose stuck in the air. “Well?”

“Draco’s choice in ties,” said Daphne quickly. “Theo’s mocking him for it.”

“I wouldn’t have picked lilac for you,” she told Draco. “But it’s not like Theo has room to talk. You look like you mucked up a potion and dropped it on your head, and haven't done us the favor of looking in a mirror.”

Theo took a sip of his drink and smirked at her over the rim. “It’s fascinating how perceptive you are, Pans. That’s exactly what happened.”

Her failure to rile up Theo made Pansy scowl, and she turned to Daphne with a dramatic flip of her hair. “Shouldn’t you father be here? He’s the host of the party, after all.”

“He’ll be down eventually,” said Daphne, tightening her grip on Draco’s arm. “He’s been locked with Robards and Rowle in his study for the past hour.” 

That made Draco frown. “Which Rowle?” 

“Thorfinn. He was released last week. Don’t ask me how he got out of a twenty-five-year sentence, because I obviously have no idea.” 

“Oh, I have plenty of ideas,” chortled Theo. “Sources have told me that he’s had a very skilled team of lawyers working for him for the past few months. Where were those lawyers when he was actually being tried? I’m pretty much sure he got access to them only after asking a certain someone for a favor,” he said with a pointed look at Daphne. 

“I don’t know what you’re insinuating,” she said, any trace of amusement leaving her face. “My father’s not a judge, he doesn’t make these types of decisions.”

Theo’s smile became an ear-to-ear grin. “That might be true,” he said, “but apparently cases like this can be overturned by just a couple of Wizengamot members. And you know who recently assumed their chairs on our lovely high court?” He waved a hand in a theatrical motion.

“Just get out with it, Theo,” hissed Pansy.

“Oh, always so eager.” He tipped his head towards her. “Some of our resident tossers. Dear old Sullivan Fawley and Quidditch captain extraordinaire, Marcus Flint. What a coincidence, right? Especially since neither of their families have been especially social since the war.”

“And what could all that possibly have to do with Daphne’s family?” 

“Why do you figure Father Greengrass is suddenly hosting all these parties for the finest members of pureblood society?” 

Daphne glared at him. “You don’t know what you’re on about, Theo,” she snapped. “My father just wanted to do something nice. You know that my family’s Ministry connection begins and ends with my father’s consulting work for the DMLE. Our chair in the Wizengamot has been vacant as long as yours.”

Theo threw his hands up. “I’m just speculating,” he said. “An infamous Death-Eater is released right after Fawley and Flint began working at the Wizengamot. A high-society party two days later. It feels a little too coincidental to me.”

“We should be glad that we finally have people to fight the bogus laws Jones is trying to push through,” spat Pansy. “Her latest is a massive bill raising taxes on every Gringotts account, with the money to go towards research on wolfsbane, of all things.” 

“And what’s wrong with that, exactly?” said Draco, who had been listening in stoic silence, his head throbbing from all the information soaking in. “There’ve always been attempts to get that research funded, and the stigma against werewolves has never been greater. Why the bloody hell shouldn’t we do something to minimize the number of them, and prevent more of them from, you know, attacking us?” 

Pansy gave him a bewildered look. “They shouldn’t even be around us in the first place. What are you on about?”

“No one complained about them when we needed them,” he snapped. “The Dark Lord had Greyback over for _get-togethers_ more than once. Or have you forgotten the War already?”

“Dear Morgana,” whispered Daphne. “All this talk about politics is giving me a migraine.”

“I’m actually finding it entertaining,” said Theo. “I mean, Pansy isn’t wrong--”

“Obviously.”

“And by that,” he continued. “I mean that yes, Jones and a bunch of former Order members have gotten louder with their demands. But other than a few laughable restrictions on books, what she’s accomplished, exactly? I wouldn’t sweat Jones.”

Pansy looked down at her nails. “I’m just saying, we should all stick together, because we’re the first getting affected by whatever they come up with.”

“You need to chill out. Shacklebolt was also in the Order, and he hasn’t done shite since he became Minister,” said Draco. There was an indiscernible feeling nagging inside of him, making his skin prickle. 

“Then again, he’s spent his entire term trying to organize post-war repairs. I don’t think he’s had enough time to do anything else,” scoffed Theo. “Jones, on the other hand…”

“I’m impressed,” said a low voice. The group turned around in surprise, finding the austere face of Douglass. His mouth was set in a firm line, but his eyes were gleaming. “Having our youth so engaged is refreshing. But I’ll have to cut in with a bit of old man wisdom, if you don’t mind.”

Daphne’s nails dug into Draco’s arm. He shot her a sharp look, then cleared his throat. “Of course not, sir...”

“Do not concern yourselves with those people,” he said slowly. “They’re used to screaming into the void, it’s what they’ve always done. Nothing gets accomplished by making noise.”

“Really?” said Theo casually. Draco knew him enough to catch the sarcastic undertone of his words. “How does it go, sir?”

“By holding all the cards in your hand, mostly,” said Douglass with a laugh, giving Theo a sharp smile. He turned to his daughter. “Daphne, why don’t you and Miss Parkinson look for your mother and sister? I just saw them on the far wall. They were having an fascinating conversation about ornamental grasses, if I’m not mistaken.”

Daphne’s expression didn’t falter, but Draco saw anger flash in her eyes, disappearing as quickly as it’d appeared. She let go of his arm. “Shall we, Pans? Now, that’s a topic we’d love to know more about.”

“Of course,” agreed Pansy, her voice tight. “Nice to see you, Mr. Greengrass.” 

“Always a pleasure,” he said coolly. They both left, throwing them scorned looks from behind Douglass’s back. “Witches these days,” muttered Douglass. “Although, Miss Parkinson seems to have her head in order. She’s a good influence on Daphne.”

Draco felt a surge of protectiveness. “Pansy has always been clever, sir,” he said. “Cleverer than us, unquestionably.”

“That she is,” nodded Theo, chugging the rest of his drink. 

Douglass looked unconvinced. “Cleverness and passion can be easily mistaken, boys. We must not be swayed by pretty faces,” he said. “Now, I need to talk to you about something rather important, Draco, if you’d step away with me for a bit.”

Draco’s stomach turned cold, and he immediately lied, “Theo and I were just planning to sneak out for a smoke, sir, if you’d accompany us?”

“Yes,” said Theo. “We were just about to go.”

Douglass considered them for a moment. Theo’s presence would be a buffer, an excuse for the conversation to remain in safe territory. He didn’t trust in his ability to play along, not when he was still riding high from his day with Granger.

“Let’s go to the balcony, the three of us,” said Douglass. “Luckily, I have some cigars with me. Now, I’ve already taught Draco to appreciate the pleasures of a good cigar. Do I need to do the same with you, Theodore?”

“No need, I do love me a cigar,” smirked Theo. “Got myself a batch from Cuba, actually.”

“Really?” said Douglass, sounding slightly impressed. Draco was fully aware of the stares they were getting as they walked across the room together, garnered -- indiscernible whispers, audible despite the piano still being played without pause. 

The brisk rush of fresh air helped to loosen the knot beginning to form in Draco’s throat. He inhaled sharply, then promptly accepted the cigar Douglass offered him.

They remained in silence through the first few puffs of tobacco. Draco leaned over the railing and gazed down at the gardens below. They were less exuberant than his family’s, seeming designed to avoid attracting extra attention. All white flowers and small trees, a barely-there fountain made of white marble hardly visible in the middle. 

After a moment, Douglass said, “You’re also in the rehab program at MRC, isn’t that correct, Theodore?” Draco tore his eyes away from the gardens and turned to face them. 

“Yes, sir.” 

Draco could barely recount occasions in which Theo’s let his discomfort show, but he shifted unsteadily under Douglass’s sharp gaze. 

“You seemed very politically-informed, from the little I caught of your conversation,” he said offhandedly. “Do you have any interest in working in the Ministry? I can think of a few departments that could use someone like you.”

Theo waved a hand. “I pride myself in harnessing knowledge, but I don’t think I fit well in...” he paused, feigning confusion. “Bureaucratic? I think that might be the word. Yes, in bureaucratic environments.” 

“I disagree,” said Douglass in a firm voice. “Some changes would be appropriate--” He looked pointendly at Theo’s hair. “--But I have a feeling you’d thrive there. Trust me, kid. I have an eye for that sort of thing.”

Theo released a cloud of smoke. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, Mr. Greengrass. But I’m pretty sure people on probation can’t work for the government.”

“Not an insurmountable obstacle, if you truly want it,” he muttered, tipping his head towards Draco. “Mr. Malfoy here, for an example, will be getting released this week.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?” said Draco, eyes widening. Theo looked at him with confusion. 

Douglass didn’t answer immediately, puffing on his cigar as anticipation filled the air. “You’ve made some people happy with your progress,” he said, seeming amused by Draco’s stunned expression. “So I’ve heard, of course.”

“Heard from whom, exactly?” 

“Ah, I’ve got acquaintances,” said Douglass. “Ah, Theodore, I hate to be like this, but I’m an old man and I don’t want to tire my poor feet any more than I have to. Would you mind fetching me a glass of firewhiskey?” Theo seemed about to protest, but the look in Douglass’s eye was firm. 

He held his breath when Theo nodded, looking hesitant as he stepped away from the balcony. Once the door had closed behind him, Douglass’s attention turned solely on Draco. “Theodore’s pretty much alone, isn’t he? Both parents deceased, am I correct?”

Draco clenched his jaw. “Yes.”

“But he’s a loyal friend?”

“He is.”

“A rare breed,” said Douglass. “I admire that kind of loyalty. Now, about that silly program. You’ll get an owl from the Ministry informing you of your official release. I understand that letter is the last required measure of your probation, correct?”

“Yes, sir,” said Draco, aiming for a neutral tone but sounding too tight. 

“Congratulations. You’re officially a free wizard.”

Draco took a puff of the cigar, looking back out at the gardens. If Snape was there, he’d chastise him for being so damn transparent. _Don’t let them see, don’t let them hear, don’t let them get an inkling of what’s going on in your head._

“My daughter and wife have been very happy lately, Draco. And I know you’ve got a hand on it,” he said, clamping a hand down Draco’s shoulder. “The Greengrasses take care of their own.”

Draco looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Malfoys can take care of themselves, Mr. Greengrass,” he said with a flat smile.

Douglass frowned, but before he could respond, Theo loudly stepped through the door, his voice booming, “Blimey, Mr. Greengrass, we seem to be out of firewhiskey. People are looking to get rowdy tonight, apparently!”

“Asta must’ve miscalculated,” said Douglass, his eyes still intent on Draco. “I’ll fix that problem. You two don’t take long here. We’ll be having a musical performance in a bit.” He tossed the lit cigar over the railing, then made his way back inside. 

When the door had closed behind him, Theo exclaimed, “What the fuck, mate? I’m bloody glad I always have an extendable ear with me.”

Draco shot him an unimpressed glance, but he couldn’t hold onto it for long. He was glad he didn’t have to rehash the conversation. “This shite is getting out of hand.”

“You think?” said Theo. “My father always said the Greengrasses were the slyest of all of us. Guess that sad bastard got something right,” he said, running a shaky hand through his already unruly hair. “What’s he up to, you think?”

“Aren’t you the one with the fucking sources?” 

“My sources are good, but not _that_ good,” he grunted. “They’ve never said anything about Douglass, I was trying to get something out of Daphne but she seems to be more clueless than us. Or she’s very good at pretending to be.”

Draco’s expression sobered when he thought of her. “What she needs to do is get her shite together, because I don’t bloody owe people any favors.”

“Too late for that, mate.”

Draco groaned inwardly. _Did my mother ask for Douglass’s help?_ He disregarded the thought as soon as it emerged. Narcissa had been too preoccupied with his father, spending hours locked in endless meetings with Stewart that never led anywhere. These days, she only paid him attention when she was questioning him about Daphne. 

She didn’t have anything to do with it, Draco was certain. But he still felt the prickle of resentment towards her. Maybe he wouldn’t be in this situation, if it hadn’t been for her insistence. Or maybe he’d stumbled into it all on his own. 

Draco had never set foot inside of Azkaban, but one didn’t need to be locked in a cell to be imprisoned. 

_

The evening dragged along at a snail’s pace. Once they’d left the solace of the balcony, Daphne had become a fixture on his arm. She played up her charm as they strolled around the room, stopping to make light conversation with each and every person in attendance. 

They made sure to always remain touching: a hand on an elbow, his palm splayed on the small of her back. She’d tilt her head to kiss him lightly on the cheek, the motion practiced enough to pass for loving.

Daphne was taller than him in heels, and he caught her shrinking herself as much she could without ruining her posture. He wondered if they looked like his parents, in any sort of way. 

“Oh, dear, I can’t believe she’s doing it,” gasped Daphne once they had left Millicent, who was less apathetic when she wasn’t stuck in court mandated rehab. “Look.”

Draco followed Daphne’s gaze until he landed on Pansy, who tilted her head back to giggle at something Gawain Robards had said. “Is she coming on to him?” 

“Oh, hell no,” snickered Daphne. “Well, maybe if it’ll help. She asked me to talk to my father about getting help with the probation ordeal. Her father’s useless in Azkaban, and her mum doesn’t want to talk about it. Haven’t you noticed she’s been moodier than usual, lately? Those bloody meetings have been getting to her.” 

“It isn’t enjoyable for anyone."

“You’ve been handling it better than she has,” shrugged Daphne. “But I told her the same thing I told _you._ My father only does consulting work for the Ministry, so I mentioned that Robards was better connected there, and that he was on the guest list for tonight.”

She sounded genuine, but people always seemed to know more than they claimed to. “I thought Robards had retired,” he said nonchalantly. 

“But he’s close with Harry Potter, isn’t he? And Potter’s big over there.”

Draco exhaled a mirthless chuckle. “Do you really think Harry bloody Potter would do anything to help Pansy, of all people? Are you bloody daft?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not saying he will help directly, I’m just saying it doesn’t hurt for her to _try_ to make a connection. Robards can put in a good word, it’s not like it’s going to do her any harm,” muttered Daphne. “Why are you so testy? I thought you’d be happy after you solved your _other_ issue.”

The last thing Draco needed was to let his mind drift to Granger, so he said through gritted teeth, “Why do you bloody think, Daph?”

“Don’t start again.” 

If it wasn’t for the looks they were getting, Draco would’ve sneered. “You realize you’re setting Pansy up for failure by telling her to beg for favors, don’t you? What’s Robards’s deal, anyway? Since when does he mix with pureblood circles?” 

“I don’t think he does,” said Daphne. “But my father and he do business together.”

Draco’s eyes drifted back to Pansy, who was now deep in conversation with not only Robards, but Douglass and Rowle. They were all paying avid attention to whatever she said, or at least pretending to. Even under the lowlights of the room, he could recognize the sugary smile softening her features. It made her look younger, almost like a deer caught in headlights. Long-term exposure made him immune to its effects, but it was one of her most potent weapons.

“You still don’t know shite about him,” he muttered. “Or your father, for that matter.”

“You and Theo think I’m daft.” She shook her head. “You’re reading into things.”

Draco arched a brow. “Really, Daph? You sure about that?” he snickered. “Because your daddy just told me he got me out of the rehab program.”

“My father has no power to do that,” she said incredulously. 

“Spare me,” he uttered. “Even if he doesn’t have the power, he has friends that do.”

Daphne shot him a sidelong glance, her throat bobbing as she swallowed. Draco almost pitied her. There was something distressing about having that sort of faith in someone. A part of him remembered a time where he’d look at his father and see nothing but relentless strength. Now it was a faint memory, and he was better for it. “Shouldn’t you be happy?”

“Certainly. And grateful as well, right? For the early engagement gift? Should I repay him by putting a ring on your finger?” he snarled. “Daphne, I don’t care what you have to do, but you have a couple of months, at most, to figure your shite out. And I’m fucking serious this time.”

“Draco--”

He gave her a sharp look. “I’m serious,” he pressed. “Granger told me about your little encounter in the restaurant’s loo. You think meddling with my life like that is going to make me indebted to you? More likely to extend this sham?”

“I talked to her because I’m your friend and frankly, you were a sorry sight, you ungrateful git.”

He smirked. “That’s sweet, Daphne. You're one of the rare selfless ones, aren't you?” he said sarcastically. “But if you’re actually my friend, you’ll take me seriously when I say that I want out of this mess. I’m not going to have this argument with you again.”

Maybe it was something about the look in his face, but Daphne didn’t protest. Her gaze was firm and cold as she scrutinized him, and he fortified his posture so she couldn’t find any weak spots to sink her teeth into. He could deny it, but Draco was his father’s son, and as such, he understood that she was her father’s daughter, and he was starting to notice that Greengrasses fed on hesitation. 

“Of course, dear,” she whispered sweetly, brushing another kiss to the side of his face. “My mother’s approaching us,” she whispered in his ear. 

Draco’s expression softened, and he nodded subtly before turning around. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Hermione's coming together was super fun to write, and I hope you all like how it went.... This chapter also brings us a bit closer to the side-plot of the story, which is going to get even more present from this point forward.
> 
> Also, I'm pretty sure this chapter is the longest one yet, so I'm hoping you enjoy it<33 let me know your thoughts, your theories, etc, every feedback is so lovely and the best part of my day! thank you guys SO much.


	24. To be Seen and to Fail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter edited by the best beta @jeparlepasfrancais. In this chapter, we have: an long coming fallout.

“ We dream and dream of being seen as we really are and then finally someone looks at us and sees us truly and we fail to measure up. Anyway: story received, story included. (...) **Sometimes you get so close to someone you end up on the other side of them**.” - The Long and the Short of It, Richard Siken

* * *

When the beginning of a new week hurriedly announced the latter half of October, Hermione woke up with a goal. 

The aftermath of her first fight with Draco had been good for her overall spirit. Their crash was painful, but they ended up landing on firmer ground. It didn’t elude her that giving up on each other would've spared them heartache in the long run. She had expected Draco to _want_ to. 

His certainty had sent stars shifting inside her chest.

Now, with her mind clear, she could focus on a more pressing issue. 

The real benefit of her promotion wasn’t the shoe-box office Hughman had dangled in front of her like a shiny toy. It was suddenly having plenty of time to do as she pleased. Hughman wasn’t uptight about deadlines, and Hermione could get work done as fast as she needed to. So when she arrived at the Center on Monday morning, she didn’t linger in her office. Instead, she tried to look inconspicuous as she headed to the building’s first floor.

When Hughman had first shown her the archive, Hermione had written it off as more than a bit eccentric. It was located in a small room lodged between the Fireplaces and the Staff Lounge -- flawlessly organized, containing a record of every piece of media coverage about the MRC sorted by year. Hanging on the walls was a timeline with major headlines and photos of Hughman with renowned witches and wizards, as well as copies of his multiple professional certificates. 

_I guess none of the staff’s accomplishments were worth a spot here,_ thought Hermione, releasing a sardonic chuckle as she brushed off a speck of dust from a shelf. The archive served more as a shrine to Hughman than useful records for the center, but at that moment it’d work just fine.

The room had been placed under several anti-stealing charms, but it was too easy to conjure copies of the files, and it didn’t seem to set off any of the alarms. “There’s something to be said about security in government buildings,” she muttered, quickly placing everything inside of her purse. She didn’t want to risk having to make an excuse to anyone who caught her there, no matter how unlikely they were to find her suspicious. 

When she arrived at her office, Hermione made herself a steaming cup of green tea and mentally prepared herself to begin reading. Hughman had been almost religious in his record keeping, so she had an extensive timeline to work with. 

The first articles Hermione examined were the highly-polished, Ministry-approved puff pieces that were par for the course for _The Daily Prophet_ in recent years. Under a variety of bylines, the articles parroted talking points that Hughman, and even Cartwell, had delivered to Hermione since she began working at the Center, not going into substantial detail, or including information that couldn’t be found in Ministry-distributed flyers.

But this was the _Prophet_ . Hermione would’ve given anything to get her hands on some of _The Serpent Wire’s_ early pieces. 

By the time she finished reading through the first year's archive, she was groaning in frustration while unconsciously ripping the tendrils off her feather quill. _Maybe Harry was right_ , she admitted, _maybe I’ve just been making up conspiracy theories._

But she knew there was something there. Every discrepancy she’d noticed over the past few months was pushing to the front of her mind, begging her to look a little closer. Hermione had the nagging feeling that she was missing something, a puzzle piece right below her nose. She studied the parchment in front of her, smoothing it down with her fingers. But where was it? 

She cracked her fingers loudly, then sighed and put the pieces of parchment back into their respective folders. Turning to the other files on the desk, she noted with interest that the files containing recent press clippings were much thicker. 

She leaned back in her hard wooden chair, her spine stiffening as she selected the next file and ran her eyes over the first piece of parchment. It was an article from _The Daily Prophet,_ which had run in January; fairly surface-level, but Hermione arched a brow when she realized that its author had treated Robards as the Ministry’s spokesperson. 

In several interviews, which grew in frequency over the course of the year, Robards raved about the reliability of the rehab program and its success rate. In one glowing statement, he had said that “ _initially, the plan was for the program to run for three years. But with the way we’re going, it’s very possible we’ll accomplish all of our goals at an unprecedented speed. In under two years, we’ve already rehabilitated and released over twenty young wizards who just needed a little push in the right direction. It’s all thanks to the mastermind behind this program, the incredible Mind Healer, Bart Hughman.”_

Her aggravation increased as she read another article. “ _The Muggle World, to this day, struggles to achieve peace and unity in its even most developed societies_ ,” said Robards. Hermione could practically see him shaking his head. _“The success of the rehab program shows the Wizarding World’s impressive ability to do just that. No wizard is truly lost to the dark, and more than magic, that’s what makes us great. That’s the beauty of Wizarding Britain._ ”

“Lovely,” she huffed. “Nothing more progressive than boasting about the Wizarding World’s superiority over Muggles society while uplifting a program that’s supposed to rebuke that mentality.” 

Just a month later, the _Prophet_ had run a follow-up piece on individuals released from the rehab program. Through Draco, Hermione knew that Goyle had been released, but she was surprised to see quotes from wizards like Sullivan Falwey and Marcus Flint, who she remembered vaguely from Hogwarts. All of them sung the praises of the MRC.

About three weeks before Hermione’s first day at the Center, the _Prophet_ published a piece whose headline stated boldly that “ _The Ministry is Successfully Bringing Britain Back to Safety."_ Hermione scoffed. History had taught her that the Wizarding World hadn’t ever been safe for people of her blood status, and even after the war, it wasn’t anywhere close. 

As she continued to read, Hermione felt equally enraged and unnerved. If she didn’t know better, she’d be starry-eyed. With a couple of strategic headlines and comments by rapturous staff members, it was easy to believe that the Ministry had beaten pureblood supremacy. They had sold a beautiful picture of growth and progress. Of outstanding work headed by people Hermione knew better than to trust. 

_And we’ve all helped them,_ she realized. Her, Harry and Ron; they had all been involved with the Ministry, and their names were thrown around like confetti. They didn’t need to speak up -- it was enough to take a perfectly timed photo, to make a throwaway remark to someone with a barely substantial connection to them, and the Ministry could twist it into a show of support. And if the Golden Trio supported it, people were hard pressed to question it.

 _You’d think people would have learned from the War._ “Where had I been all this time?” she asked herself, something uncomfortable twisting in her gut. 

She remembered skimming over articles like these when she’d been busy following McGonagall around the ruins of Hogwarts, feeling like she was inhaling cotton candy rather than air. She remembered reading about the MRC when she returned from Australia, feeling so numb from grief that anything other than sleep felt like too much to handle. She’d been present as it all unfolded. But she hadn’t been _there_. 

If she had, maybe Hermione would’ve thought twice before accepting this job. 

_

By the time Hermione left the MRC, her eyes were stinging with exhaustion and her spine was stiff from being hunched over her desk. She thought back to endless hours in the Hogwarts library, nose buried in books, getting by on three hours of sleep and letting fatigue roll off her back like water. _How did I do it?_

It made her consider staying home for the night. 

She disregarded the idea before letting it take shape. Staying at the flat would mean obsessing over what she had read. A night of rest would become a night of _restlessly_ tossing and turning, knowing the stress-induced nightmares were on their way. 

_And I can talk to Draco about it_ . _He might know something that I don’t,_ she decided, taking her time showering and getting dressed. Crookshanks was grumpily staring at her from his place on the bed, not appeased by the treats she’d given him to soothe the sting of her frequent absences. 

She was sorting her overnight bag when she heard a knock. Her head snapped towards the door, and Crookshanks gracefully leaped from the bed and stalked towards it, scratching his claws against the door as he tried to get to the person on the other side. 

It wasn’t like she didn’t know who it was. 

Hermione hid the bag in her closet before approaching the door. Her stomach was beginning to churn with anxiety, so she pulled it open abruptly, afraid she’d lose her courage if she waited too long. 

“Hi, Harry.” 

He offered her a flat smile. “Hi, Hermione. Can I come in?” 

She wanted to say _no_ , but she couldn’t do it. Not when Harry was voluntarily seeking her out. They had been skirting each other for weeks, both afraid that any sudden move would wind up setting the other off. 

It made the flat feel like foreign land. 

Hermione nodded, stepping back from the door so he could come in. Maybe he was there to wave a white flag. She’d give anything to end this cold war between them. 

She heard the sheets rumple as he sat, then Crookshanks’s pleased purrs. She leaned against her dresser, fiddling with a pair of earrings just for something to do. Harry had sat in that same spot countless times -- on the edge of her bed, sharing stories about his day as she folded laundry or straightened bookshelves, asking questions and laughing at the right parts. 

He had never looked as out of place as he did then. 

“Ginny and I went to Mrs. Choi’s shop on Saturday. She’s really excited for the wedding.” 

“Ginny and Molly told us all about it over lunch yesterday,” he shrugged. “Are you going out?”

“Yes. I’m going to meet a friend.”

Harry hummed under his breath. “Which friend?” he asked, sounding forcibly casual.

“Edina Cartwell,” said Hermione, turning around to hide her flush. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the small mirror on top of her dresser. “Why are you asking?”

“On a Monday night?”

Hermione smoothed her expression before turning around. Harry’s gaze was intently piercing into her, looking too sober to mean anything good. “It’s not a school night, is it?” she said jokingly. He didn’t crack a smile, and any idea of waving a white flag flew straight out of her head. 

“Are you going to celebrate your promotion?”

Her heart stuttered. “You heard about that?”

“I had lunch with Robards this afternoon,” said Harry, still running his hands through Crookshanks’s fur. The cat purred loudly. “He asked me if you were enjoying the new position. He said the Ministry truly appreciates the work you’ve done with the rehab program.”

“Why is Robards talking about that with you?” said Hermione. “He doesn’t work there anymore.”

Harry shot her a look of exasperation. “That’s what you’re worried about, Hermione?” 

“ _Yes_ ,” she snapped. “I don’t want someone I don’t even know telling people my business.” 

He laughed humorlessly. “If he hadn’t, would you have told me, Hermione? He said you were _attacked_ in that damn program. You didn’t think to mention it?”

Hermione pressed her hands to her face, her skin too heated against her palms. Every excuse she thought of felt feeble. _And what’s the point?_ Harry would see right through her. “I didn’t want you to worry,” she said weakly, knowing it was only half a truth. His unwavering gaze made her think that he knew it. 

“Too late,” he said. “I’ve been worrying about you for years now.”

“You don’t need to.”

“I clearly do, if you’ve been willingly putting yourself in a foolish situation,” spat Harry, his voice growing louder. Hermione flinched, her heart beginning to pound inside of his chest as he huffed and stood from the bed, ignoring Crookshanks’s irritated meows. “Merlin, Hermione, if _I_ left everything that had to with the war behind, how could you not?” 

She clenched her jaw. “Harry, we’re not fighting a war down there. We’re rehabilitating people.”

“People that want to hurt you? I told you that I could get some Aurors down there and _you_ told me that you barely saw those bloody Death Eaters. You lied to me about it.”

“I did.”

He didn’t seem to absorb her confession. “And I had to find through someone else that you’ve been attacked. How do you bloody think that makes me feel?”

A wave of guilt passed over her. “You probably feel awful,” she said softly. “I know exactly how you feel, Harry.”

He sighed. “Yet you’re still working there?”

Hermione faltered, a crease forming between her eyebrows. “Harry, I regret not telling you about the program, but I don’t regret working at the MRC,” she said. How could she? It had awakened her from a long state of inertia. It had brought _purpose_ back into her life. She didn’t regret a second of it, not even the parts she had hated. 

“I thought you were supposed to be the smart one, Hermione,” snapped Harry. “What are Ron and I supposed to do, wait until one of them corners you after class, hits you with an Unforgivable or two, or maybe that Entrail-Expelling Curse Moody taught us? Then maybe I’ll find out from Ginny that you’re in St. Mungo’s?” 

She wondered when Harry first began seeing her as someone who needed protection, less the person who had stood by his side through everything, and more like someone he had to shield. 

“You don’t need to protect me, Harry,” she choked out. “I’ve always taken care of myself. And of you, and of Ron. Have you forgotten? I made a conscious decision. You don’t get to talk to me like I’m stupid for it.” 

Harry tried to hide his shaky hands behind his back, but she had already seen them. Her shame and guilt and anger knit together like a ball of yarn. “You’re hurt because I didn’t tell you, which is understandable,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry, Harry. I can’t begin to explain how sorry I am. But trying to make me feel small because I took the job in the first place? And being upset because I didn’t ask you to save me from it? That’s something else altogether.” 

“You think it’s wrong of me to be worried about you?” he said defensively. 

And just like that, her guilt weakened. It was still present, but it seemed to fade against the hurt that flooded her. 

“Harry, I’m not made out of glass,” pleaded Hermione. “We fought a war together.” 

She was so tired of feeling two feet tall. She was so tired of self-flagellating for him. Making excuses for him. Forgiving him, again, without him asking first. 

“I don’t think you’re fragile, Hermione,” he sighed. “I just worry about you. Ever since the war-- Look, I understand that we’re dealing with everything differently. But then you stopped coming to the Burrow, and after George’s death day--” 

“We already talked about this, Harry.” 

Harry pushed up his glasses. “And we got nowhere, did we? And you still think there isn’t a problem? Seriously, Hermione?”

“There are a lot of problems, Harry,” said Hermioner, desperately trying to keep herself together. “I’m just not sure that we’re talking about the same things.”

Maybe Harry expected her to do what she’d done so easily since the war had made a shell out of her. What she’d done for Molly Weasley, and every other person who had badgered into her life with misplaced righteousness. He expected her to _let it go_. 

“Right,” he deadpanned. “You know, Hermione, sometimes I feel like you’re asking for us to give up on you.”

“All of you feel like that?” she said, feeling something crack within her.

“ _I_ feel like that,” he exclaimed, his voice rising, seemingly against his wishes, because it lowered again when he continued. “It’s hard having to _try_ all the time. And I do try. Because you’re my sister, but I need something from you too.” He exhaled. “Why do you think I stopped talking to you? The reason I didn’t tell you about my promotion? About proposing to Ginny? It’s because you can’t seem to move on from the fact that the war _is_ over. Everything has to have a reason, everything sets you off.”

Would he believe her, if she told him what she knew about the Ministry? Her suspicions about Robards? Or would he poke at her insecurities, question her until she couldn’t help but doubt herself? 

“Harry, you don’t have a clue,” muttered Hermione. “You think that Voldemort died and that was the end of it? I’m fabricating things, for what? Because I’m stuck in the past?” 

“I’m the one who’s at the Ministry every day, Hermione,” he said dryly. “You don’t listen when I tell you there’s nothing happening there, you think Robards has second intentions for doing nothing but help me, you keep reading that deluded magazine and questioning everything we do. You’re not moving on and you’re not letting me, either.” 

And that was the answer to every question that didn’t leave her mouth. She felt a sharp sting of disappointment. _He’s not going to believe you_ , she told herself, hating that it left her feeling breathless.

“I’m sorry that I’m somehow stopping you from living in this perfect, welcoming world where nothing bad ever happens,” said Hermione, trying to be unyielding, but sounding a little too close to weakness. “You know that the war wasn’t about Voldemort’s vendetta against you, right, Harry? It didn’t end there, either. Why do you think Rookwood attacked me?”

“Oh Merlin,” he groaned in frustration. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about, Hermione. Of course there are gits. They are always going to be here. But you refuse to let go and I can’t-- Hermione, I can’t handle it anymore. I want us all to be happy, I want _you_ to be happy.”

He sounded so urgent that part of Hermione wanted to give it to him. For a moment that lasted far too long, she wanted to wrap all of Harry’s wishes in beautiful packaging and drop them right in his lap. 

But she couldn’t. “You want me to be _your_ version of happy, Harry, because somehow me being who I am is hindering your version of what life is supposed to be,” she said. “This has nothing to do with me, this is all about you.”

“Don’t make me sound like I'm selfish for wanting you to get better.”

“I _am_ better, Harry,” she exclaimed. _Don’t you see? How can you not see?_ “What you want is for me to apologize. You want me to say that I’m sorry for things you _think_ I’ve done. Is that what’s going to take for you to feel better?”

“I don’t want--” his voice trailed off, and something inside of her shifted painfully.

“I’m sorry that I haven’t been who you want me to be, Harry.” Her voice lost its urgency, but her words bled with an anguish she couldn’t hold back. “I’m sorry that I’m not in love with Ron anymore. I’m sorry that I’m not following you into the Ministry. I’m sorry if I ask too many questions and that I can’t seem to let go and I’m sorry that somehow means that I’m not happy for you. I’m sorry that I’m not letting you be the hero who saves me from myself.” She waited for Harry’s face to light up with _something_ , anything that could give her an indication of his understanding. 

He stared at her blankly for a long stretch of time, then muttered, “I don’t want you to apologize, Hermione.”

“What did you want then?” she said desperately. “Were you looking for the person that I used to be? Because I tried really hard to be like her, but I couldn’t do it.”

His expression darkened. The air around them seemed to blow the windows wide open, making her feel paralyzed. 

“I think maybe we need some time apart,” he said in a steady voice. “So we can talk about things when we can understand each other a little better.”

She smiled bitterly. “You didn’t understand any of what I said?”

“I did, Hermione, and it makes me think that I’ve been hurting you. Even when I’ve just been trying to help you. And you’ve been hurting me too, so maybe that means that we need some time.” She watched as he released a frustrated breath. “I’m going to stay at the Burrow. Ginny is there anyway, just until--”

She shook her head. “I’ll go, Harry.”

“But I can go to the Burrow.”

He looked at her ruefully. And at that moment, Hermione realized Harry felt _sorry_ for her. It dawned on her in a rush of coldness. “You think I don’t have anywhere else to go, Harry?” she asked coolly. “I know I’m not the same person, but I can take care of myself. I haven’t lost all my marbles yet.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he tried, but it didn’t sound anywhere close to sincere.

Hermione swallowed and started to walk towards the door. She grabbed the knob and cracked it open all the way. Harry dragged his hand down his face, opening his mouth to speak, but deciding against it. 

Before she could close the door behind him, he turned to face her again. “I do love you, Hermione.”

“I love you too, Harry,” she whispered back, shutting the door before he could say anything else. 

_

Everything around Hermione was blurred. 

She didn’t let herself think as she moved her wand in quick motions, magic feeling like a low drumming under her skin. Her hair crackled around her like she’d touched a live wire, and she smoothed it down roughly as she hastily waved her clothes into dusty duffel bags; she shrank books and knick knacks and threw them into her purse with a carelessness that would’ve embarrassed her on any other occasion.

By the time the room around her was bare, feeling foreign and nothing like the place she’d lived in for the past year, her breath left her mouth in exhausted puffs of air. Her face was flushed, and Crookshanks was meowing loudly in her direction.

She grabbed her bags and her cat and she spun around the room and wondered, for half a second, if this was what goodbye was supposed to feel like. 

_

Draco hummed under his breath as he shrugged off his jacket, throwing it haphazardly on a hanger in the hall closet before taking off his boots. The flat felt static with quiet, but strong gusts of air were coming from the open windows, making the curtains flow and the room feel colder than it was supposed to be. 

_Granger must be here_ , he guessed, heading towards the staircase. 

He paused. 

A large ball of orange fur was perched on the first step, his enormous eyes narrowed menacingly, sharp teeth bared. It hissed at him, and Draco arched a brow, taking in the creature standing guard in his own damn home. 

“The audacity,” he said a low voice, then bellowed, “Granger, what’s your demon cat doing here?” The cat stealthily jumped into the wooden floor, and Draco took a step back, scowling. _I’m not scared of a bloody cat_ , he told himself, folding his arms over his chest and jutting his chin. “ _Granger!”_

The cat stalked forward, and Draco held his ground for five long seconds. When he didn’t hear Granger’s voice rushing to give him an explanation, a jolt of concern hit his chest. 

He groaned inwardly and sidestepped the animal, ignoring the squeaky hisses that got louder as he rose up the stairs. For some reason, the cat didn’t follow him. Instead, he was staring him down from the foot of the stairs, if he could make him disappear with the force of his glare. 

“Useless little shite,” he muttered. If Draco was actually a threat to Granger, that creature would be as effective as scattered-brained Ron Weasley. 

Draco tried to force down the uncomfortable feeling beginning to stir inside of him, noting her purse tossed carelessly on top of the bed, a few of its items having rolled out and into the sheets. Two large duffel bags were squashed against the wall, and her shoes had been thrown on opposite sides of the room. If her absence wasn’t worrisome enough, this peculiar display of messiness would be. 

He walked towards the bathroom. It was the only place Granger could be, but he didn’t hear a sound through the door. “Granger, are you there?” he asked, his stomach twisting uncomfortably. 

An excruciating moment of silence stretched around him like an elastic band. Draco was about to try the knob, when a small voice said, “I’m here.”

A relieved sigh escaped his lips. His forehead hit the door in a thud, and he squeezed his eyes shut. “Got me worried for a second, there,” he muttered. “Can I come in?” 

Instinct told him to wait. So he held in a breath, his forehead still pressed against the door while his heart rose in his throat. 

Her voice sounded uncomfortably fragile when she gave him permission. He didn’t wait a second before opening the door with one rough pull of his arm. Granger’s body gave a startled jerk, and Draco froze. 

She was blinking at him from her place in the tub, her bare arms wrapped around her knees, fat drops of water falling from her curls and splashing onto her shivering skin. The sight of her filled his stomach with a bag of concrete. 

It reminded him of how she’d been in their first night in the flat -- present, but not really, a dark cloud behind her eyes, making him grasp for anything that could make her feel better. It didn’t come close to the absolute despair of seeing her like this. He hadn’t loved Hermione Granger back then. 

He felt a ringing roar of protectiveness, a helpless whisper of _what can I do, how can I make this better for you_. 

“Can I join you?” 

She was still looking at him, hollow but painfully earnest, as if telling him _I trust you to not fuck this up. I let you in because I trust you not to fuck this up_. 

“If you want. The water’s already cold.”

“I can fix that,” murmured Draco, already shedding his clothes off. He used his wand to warm up the water before setting it on the ledge next to the tub. The tub was enough to fit them both, but Granger’s posture warned him not to touch. 

Draco carefully lowered himself on the opposite side of her, stretching his legs until the soles of his feet hit the edge. He made sure that their skin didn’t come into contact, and wondered how long she’d been sitting there, shivering in cold water, too consumed by her own thoughts to notice that the warmth had drained out of the room. 

The silence around them lasted several heartbeats. Draco watched Granger’s trembling slowly decrease, her fingers aimlessly treading water. He caught every subtle change in her expression -- eyes clearing a bit, forehead creasing, chewing her bottom lip. “I must make a sorry sight, don’t I?” said Granger, wrapping a hand around his ankle softly. 

“Want to tell me why?” he asked. The shaky breath she released was barely audible, but Draco was so in tune with her that it rang loudly in his ears. 

Granger sighed, gearing herself up, then visibly losing her nerve. He forced himself to push down his urge to press. 

Then all at once, as if the words would get stuck if she didn’t let them out, she said, “Harry and I broke up. It’s like when you’re in a car, and you lose control of the wheel, and the tires graze against the pavement and you’re about to hit the lamppost, so you try to hit the brakes but for some reason they’ve stopped working.” Her eyes searched his. “I’m sorry, you didn’t understand a thing I just said, right? You’ve never seen a car.”

“I might not know what a _car_ is,” he said carefully. “But I know that sometimes things are inevitable.”

She nodded. “We both said a lot of _inevitable_ stuff. A lot of it he was right to say, but he made me feel this tall,” she whispered, holding her thumb and index finger a inch apart. “Still,” she said with a dejected sigh. “I have a confession to make.”

“Yeah?”

She swallowed, her eyes gleaming. Her hand around his ankle was a ghost of a touch.

“I’m a liar, Draco. That’s another one of my character flaws. I hid so much from Harry, and then I got upset when he did the same to me,” she said, sounding miserable. “I’m a hypocrite too, but that’s something you’ve already noticed, isn’t it?”

“We all screw up, Hermione.”

“I _know_ that, Draco. I swear that I’ve stopped trying to be perfect ages ago, but I think that’s exactly what did us in,” she said breathlessly. “I used to just swallow stuff, you know? I swallowed how exhausting it was to have to prove myself. I swallowed all the times I felt lonely over the years. I swallowed my jealousy whenever I felt like Ron and Harry were this _team_ and I was just tagging along beside them. I swallowed all the times Ron made me feel like I was begging for his attention. And I swallowed my grief, and then-- I lost my parents and I just couldn’t keep swallowing anymore, Draco.”

He tentatively lifted his hand out of the water. She glanced at his outstretched palm, and he waited, heart thundering, for her to slide her hand over his. 

“I was drowning in it,” whispered Granger. “Harry noticed, and he felt responsible for me. But I never really wanted him to take care of me, I just wanted him to understand.” 

“And he didn’t?” 

She shook her head. “I think that’s what happens when you stop knowing someone.” 

_I don’t think I’ll ever stop knowing you,_ he thought, amazed by how much it sounded like the truth. Granger’s eyes softened just a bit, and he thought she saw it. “What were you supposed to do, Hermione? Keep choking?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she intertwined their fingers. She rubbed her thumb over the side of his hand in careful motions, and Draco had to grip the side of the tub to stop himself from dragging her into his arms. 

Her voice was just above a whisper. “Would I've been able to keep them, if I had?” 

“Maybe,” conceded Draco. “But, love, you can’t set yourself on fire to keep them warm.”

“No?”

“I know that sometimes it feels like we’re just stars orbiting around them, shining for them.” Her eyes didn’t waver, and she seemed to take in his words like a lifeline. It made his chest tighten painfully. It made him feel invincible. “But Granger, there’s no doubt in my mind that you’ve always been the sun. Never any of them.” 

Granger’s frown twitched into a half smile, and she tilted her head. “Isn’t the sun a star too, Draco?”

“Sure,” agreed Draco, his smile matching hers. “But it’s the most badass of them all, isn’t it?”

And Granger tore her hand away from his and threw her arms around his neck, pulling herself into his lap and hid her face on his shoulder, water rushing over the edge and their clothes. 

“It’s okay, love,” he muttered against her hair, rubbing his hands over the expanse of her back. Her body shook, and Draco held her tightly. “You’re not alone.”

Nothing in the world would tear her away from him.

_

When Granger stopped shaking and sagged tiredly against him, Draco gently moved her off his lap and stood up, stepping out of the tub. He dried the floor before reaching back to the water, gathering her into his arms and lifting her out. 

She nestled her face against his shoulder. “You can let me go,” she said as his feet slapped against the tiles. “I’m not exactly lightweight.”

“Are you doubting my strength, Granger?” he grimaced. “You dare to offend me this way?”

“I wouldn’t want you to overestimate what your skinny arms are capable of. We’d have a hard time explaining a visit to St. Mungo’s.”

Draco let out a mock gasp of offense, then dug his fingers lightly under her thighs. Granger squirmed and chuckled under her breath, seeming almost startled by the sound. He kissed her temple, and safely got them into the bedroom. 

He made sure to mutter a drying spell before lowering her onto the mattress. Granger closed her eyes for a second, and Draco drank her in -- there was so much strength in her. He couldn’t wrap his head around anyone thinking she was anything but rock solid. 

"Remember when you told me you felt like they killed you?" 

She frowned. "I was drunk, Draco." 

"I know, but listen... I don't think they killed you. I think they battered you. But the parts that make up you? They’re still there,” he smiled. “You’re rebuilding yourself all over again. And you never stopped being fucking fantastic." 

"You think?" 

"Of course, Hermione,” he intoned. “You might have gotten lost along the way, but that’s okay. We all did.”

Her eyes shone up at him, and he took a step back to give her a moment of reprieve. 

Draco walked over to the closet, pulling on a pair of pants and grabbing the first jumper he saw before stepping back into the room. “Let me help you,” he said, pulling her into a seating position. 

“I’m not a baby,” she protested weakly, reaching for the jumper. He snickered and tugged the fabric over her head. Granger’s nose was wrinkled, but her cheeks were flushed with pleasure.

He brushed a light kiss against her lips. “Do you want to sleep?”

“I don’t think I can, right now,” she muttered. “My head is still on overdrive. I always get nightmares, when I’m like this.”

“I know what we can do.” She narrowed her eyes. “For Merlin’s sake, Granger. I’m not a bloody savage. Get your head out of the gutter.”

She threw her hands up. “Can you blame me for jumping to conclusions? With the way you are?” 

“That’s fair, but I have something else in mind right now,” said Draco. He grabbed his wand and muttered _accio_. The book fell in his outstretched hand. 

Granger gave him a confused look, but he ignored her, moving to sit with his back against the headboard. She swiftly settled between his legs, and he handed her the book. “ _The Essential Eye_ by Kester Rattenbury? Is this what you bought at the bookstore?” He hummed affirmatively. “So you liked the London Eye? You never said.”

“Of course I liked it,” he said flippantly. “It’s been awhile since we’ve exchanged books. I thought we could read this one together.” Granger pressed her lips against his forearm, leaning against him more comfortably as she opened to the first page. 

They read in silence for a while. Granger waited for her cue -- a light tap on her thigh -- before turning the page. When she found something particularly interesting, she would drag the tip of her finger under the line, and he’d recite it slowly in her ears. 

She was finally relaxing against him, the tension slowly draining from her body. Draco fought against the sleep trying to drag him under, wanting to prolong the moment, but when they reached the end of the third chapter, Granger put the book away. 

“I’m sorry, Draco.”

He frowned. “For what?”

“Harry and I agreed that we should spend time apart, and I just--” she faltered. “He offered to go to the Burrow, but I didn’t want to be in the flat, so I came here. How selfish is that? I didn’t even ask you.”

“I don’t care, Hermione.”

She ignored him. “I even brought Crookshanks here. I know you don’t like cats! I could’ve gotten a room at _The Three Broomsticks_ or something. I’m really sorry that I--”

“Hermione,” he tried again.

“I’m going to look for a place of my own after work. You don’t have to worry about it. And Crooks won’t bother us tonight, he’s a good boy.” He scoffed. Granger twisted around to give him a look of offense. “What? He _is_. He’s an independent animal. He won’t bother you.”

The bloody cat was the last thing on his mind. “You can stay, Hermione. Indefinitely. You’re here all the time, anyway."

“But I shouldn’t,” she said firmly. 

Draco lifted a hand to caress her cheek. Granger’s lashes fluttered, and she leaned against his palm. “I have a confession to make,” he said.“If you want to hear it.”

“Of course I do.” 

“I was sick and tired of the Manor after I was released from house arrest,” Granger's disarming look of _trust_ hadn’t vanished, and it helped him talk past the lump in his throat. “It stopped feeling like home, so I bought this place. It was the first one I saw. I really didn’t give a shite what it looked like.”

“It’s a beautiful flat, Draco.”

He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “It didn’t matter. I saw it, and it was okay, so I bought it. But then--” He paused. “I never even came here again. I told myself that my mother needed me at the Manor, but to be completely honest, this place didn’t feel like home either. And I thought, better the devil you know, right?” He chuckled. “It was too much bloody work to make something out of this.”

“What changed?”

He shot her a pointed look. “What do you think, Granger?” Her gaze burned into him, and Draco couldn’t help it. He kissed her, and she sighed deeply.

When they broke apart, he said, “You don’t have to stay here. I’ll help you find somewhere that accepts that diabolical creature of yours. I’ll even help you move all your crap. But this place is as much yours as it is mine,” he finished. “So give it some thought, yeah? There’s no rush.” 

She rested her forehead against his. “I’ll think about it,” she finally whispered. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I see this chapter as the end of this story's first part. It wasn't intentional, but it ended being, quite literally, the halfway point. This means we have only the latter halve to go. 
> 
> Hermione and Harry's friendship have been a focal point of this story because it was the most blatant example of how Hermione's emotional distress, post-war, affected her life intrinsically and irrevocably. A lot of people have commented about her need to individualize and maybe even distance herself. I totally agree, but we had a lot to navigate until we could get her to this exact point -- healthier, stronger, more independent, but having a place/person to fall into when she needs to (because there's strength in vulnerability, too; people need people), I'd like to think. 
> 
> For the ones who still like their friendship, we have half of the story to go and A LOT to happen, so keep tuned ;) I can't wait for you guys to read how things develop from here, after all, we have some Ministry shenanigans to reveal, and Draco's own emotional redemption to see <3 let me know your thoughts!


	25. From Kingdom to Kingdom through the Wilderness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter edited by the best beta @jeparlepasfrancais.

"They're hurling their bodies down the freeway to the smell of gasoline, which is the sound of a voice saying I told you so. Yes, you did dear. Every story has its chapter in the desert, **t** **he long slide from kingdom to kingdom through the wilderness, where you learn things, where you're left to your own devices**." Driving not Washing, Richard Siken 

* * *

Hermione loved having something to focus on. 

When she’d first started, reading reports all day long had felt like an insult to her capabilities. But now, it’d become a game of searching for holes, vague statements or unexplained conditions, and prodding them to see which would hold up and which would give in under a bit of pressure. 

In the days following her fallout with Harry, _knowing_ that she was right about her suspicions made the thought of their decaying friendship sting a little less. With every hour spent looking for clues, Hermione began to feel more like herself. 

The messy, out of sorts self of the _before_ and the _after._

It was almost like learning how to swim. 

_

The MRC was always brimming with people who shared a rather inconvenient interest: knowing anything and everything about the members of The Golden Trio. Hermione had become skilled in tuning out the murmuring that followed her, but since she’d started staying in Draco’s flat, albeit temporarily, she had to take the precaution of waiting for the crowd to dwindle before using the Floo. 

That Thursday, Hermione left forty-five minutes after her clock-out time, her mind still buzzing from what she’d read. She’d taken it upon herself to sort through Cartwell’s reports from the early days of the rehab program, trying to find _any_ inkling of truth behind what the Ministry was selling to the general public. She was surprised to find that her reports were less than half a page long, and extremely bare-bones. 

_She always made me type up my notes in meticulous detail, but the reports she sent in were bullet-point lists?_ Maybe Draco’s cynicism had been rubbing off on her, but she couldn’t suppress the voice in the back of her mind that said she shouldn’t trust anyone’s intentions. 

“Oi, Hermione.”

“Oh,” squeaked Hermione, turning to find Cartwell, who fell into step beside her as they began to descend the stairs. She smoothed her expression, afraid her thoughts were visible on her face. “It’s been awhile since I’ve seen you.”

“I’d love to say that it’s because things have been busy, but that wouldn’t be true.” Hermione was about to leap on that sentence, but the healer continued, “You’ve been locked in that office a lot.”

“Organizing and sending reports to the Ministry is a solitary duty,” she said. _And one I’ve been mostly neglecting_ _._ “I thought you had your hands full with the rehab program and PTSD patients.” 

Cartwell’s face fell. “Usually I would. But I’ve had to release some of the patients. I’m doing my best to work out proposals for post-treatments plans, but when it comes to money…” Her voice trailed off with a dejected sigh. 

“Shouldn’t that fifty-thousand galleon donation be used towards things like that?”

“Hughman’s the one who handles the finances of the MRC, and according to him, we _never_ have money,” she said, sheepishly looking over her shoulder. “And now that I had to release some of the rehab members, the group is much smaller too. So less work on that front, as well.”

Hermione faltered. “You released rehab members? I didn’t get your report recommending release to the Ministry. I thought that kind of thing would go through the report process?”

“That’s because _I_ didn’t recommend release, Hermione.” She shook her head. “Hughman told me to release Mr. Malfoy and Miss Parkison, and while I objected to it, there was nothing I could do.”

Her first reaction was to feel hurt. Draco hadn’t mentioned anything about it, and her mind made up a thousand possibilities in the span of a second. She groaned inwardly, fighting back that voice. She knew better than to let anxiety take over her. “When did this happen?” 

“I got the official request on Monday, but I held back on signing the terms so I could get a meeting with Wizengamot. Hughman told me yesterday that they denied my request,” she said bitterly. “Mr. Malfoy and Mrs. Parkinson received the letters this morning.”

 _Oh_ _,_ thought Hermione, relief washing over her like a tidal wave. “Being cold-shouldered by the Wizengamot is always an unpleasant experience, I know,” she said, then winced, hating how resentful she sounded. “I didn’t mean--”

“No, that’s okay, Hermione. I know I didn’t exactly have your back when you needed me to,” muttered Cartwell. “But we have to work with what we have. A fight like this is hopeless.” 

_No fight is_ , she thought. Maybe Cartwell was convinced that they couldn’t push back, but Hermione had never enjoyed being a pawn. She had joined the MRC to make a difference, and her job in the rehab program had restarted her life after months-long inertia. She wanted to _know_ why she had lost it. 

“Can I ask you something?” said Hermione, as they stopped in front of the fireplaces. “I was reading through your old reports about the rehab program, the very early ones, just out of my own curiosity. And they’ve all been very short, maybe three or four paragraphs…” 

“Oh no, Hermione. My reports were several pages long,” interrupted Cartwell. “I gave a full description of each meeting and detailed feedback on every participant. Are you sure they were mine?”

“They had your official seal.”

Cartwell paused, tilting her head. “Well, my reports used to go through Hughman, so maybe he summarized them. He was the one who sent them to the Ministry.”

Hermione sighed. “Do you have a copy of the originals?”

She shook her head. “I only have my notes,” she said, giving Hermione an apologetic smile. “Does this have something to do with one of your current projects?”

“Yes, absolutely,” said Hermione, thinking fast. “I’m creating a template for future healers to use for their reports. Standardizing the system.”

“Of course,” said Cartwell. “Well, I’m happy to drop my notes by your office tomorrow, if you want.”

“I would appreciate it,” said Hermione, forcing a smile on her face. “Have a good evening.”

“You too,” said Cartwell, waving goodbye before stepping into the fireplace. Hermione waited for her to be engulfed by the emerald flames before checking her surroundings and doing the same, feeling more confused than she had before. 

_

“We need to start getting these delivered here,” announced Draco, stepping out of the fireplace with a copy of _The Daily Prophet_ rolled up in his fist. 

Hermione glanced up from the couch, where she sat stroking Crookshanks’s fur. “You’d have to get listed for that,” she said, “and _Draco Malfoy Moves to Love Nest with Greengrass Heiress_ would make quite a headline.”

He scowled, dropping the paper on the coffee table. “Sometimes I have dreams of burning their building to a crisp,” he said moodily. Hermione shot him a pointed look. “When no one’s there, Granger. And I have absolute confidence that I could get away with it, too.” 

“I don’t doubt it,” conceded Hermione, failing to control the twitch of her lips. When Draco leaned in to kiss her, Crookshanks jerked up, baring his teeth in a hiss. 

“Your cat is a bloody menace,” he snapped, flinching when the cat jumped down from the couch. Draco glared after him. “I have dreams about him too.”

“Maybe if you were nicer to him,” she snickered. “He can feel you’re holding a grudge. For no reason, I might add.”

Draco scoffed. “I bought him those expensive fucking treats yesterday. How much nicer can I get?”

“Maybe let him sleep on the bed.”

“Over my dead body,” he said, sounding highly offended by the idea. Hermione bit back a chuckle, waiting for him to settle on the couch. “How have you been?” he asked, his voice suddenly turning soft. Since the day in the bathtub, something had shifted between them. Draco hadn’t ever treated her like she was fragile, but there was something quieter about the way he moved around her.

“I bumped into Cartwell before leaving work,” said Hermione instead of answering. “She told me you were released from the program today.” 

Draco’s hand fell from where it was playing with the tips of her curls. “I was going to tell you about it.”

“I’m not upset,” said Hermione. “I’m happy for you, Draco.” 

He shot her a skeptical look. “Are you sure about that?”

“I know it was the last measure for your probation,” shrugged Hermione. “But it wasn’t Cartwell’s decision, you know? Hughman just told her to do it. She tried to go to the Wizengamot about it, but they ignored her.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Draco, leaving the couch and stepping towards the kitchen. Hermione frowned and stood up to follow him. He was clearly uncomfortable. She watched as he reached into the freezer and grabbed the pint of ice cream, scooping some into a bowl before dropping into a chair, looking sullen. Hermione sat across from him, her mind flashing through their conversation.

She felt guilt twist her gut. _“ I am_ happy for you, Draco,” she said softly. “I mean, you have changed your mind about Muggles, haven’t you?” she said, conscious that she sounded uncertain. She had never asked him outright, even if he had shown her, in more than one way. 

His eyes darted towards her, and Hermione shifted in her chair, unsettled by his impassive expression. “What do you think, Granger?”

“I think you should answer,” she said nervously. 

They stared at each other for a long moment. Hermione was about to stand up and leave him to it, when he grunted, “The meetings helped, and Cartwell tries, even if she’s a bloody pushover.”

Hermione couldn’t control the smile that split her face. “Yeah?” she asked, reaching for his arm. “And be nice to Cartwell, she did the best she could with you lot.”

He scowled. “It was her _job_ to convince us, not our job to make it easy for her,” he muttered. “It’s not my fault she doesn’t have a backbone.” 

Hermione scoffed. “Please, Snape himself couldn’t convince you of anything you didn’t want to believe. You’re worse than Ron.” He glared at her. “Okay, you’re worse than Harry.”

“Not any better.” 

“Look, I’m just saying, we did the best we could. It’s hard work ripping out the roots of a centuries-old belief system,” she snapped, feeling her face turn red. “Not to mention all of the bullshit you gave us--”

“Okay, okay,” he said, putting his hands up. “What do you want me to say? I couldn’t find any magic supporting the London Eye, and if Muggles can make something like that, it’d be stupid of me to think of them as inferior, wouldn’t it? I’m certainly not stupid.”

She let out a long sigh, and shook her head. “I’m happy to hear that. _But,_ Pansy was released too. And I can’t help but--”

“Pansy was released?” he asked, something like concern flashing through his eyes. He let out a low groan of annoyance. “Bloody hell.”

“What’s up with that?

“Nothing,” he said, too quickly. “I know you don’t want to hear it because you have all these ideas about changing the world and you’re full of good intentions and whatever else, but I told you, this program is a sham.”

Hermione glanced up at the ceiling. She knew Draco would never let this go. “I agree with you,” she sighed, and he mock-gasped. “Seriously, I’ve been reading reports and old _Prophet_ articles. They’ve been lying about it to everyone since the program started.” 

“You _agree_ with me?” he said with an exaggerated drawl. “Now, _that_ would make a headline. I’d even pay the _Prophet_ to publish that one. Maybe I could send in an anonymous tip? Do you think they would run with it? Or maybe _Witch Weekly?_ They have an affinity for Malfoys, I’ve heard...” Hermione had never seen him look so gleeful. “Can you imagine Weasel’s head exploding when he reads it? Where are you going? Ah, come on, Hermione...”

She ignored him, slumping back onto the couch and snatching the newspaper from the coffee table. Draco was still babbling loudly from the kitchen, but Hermione successfully tuned him out, turning to the headline in front of her. “Oh, of course.”

“What?” asked Draco, sitting beside her. 

“Robards just announced his candidacy for Minister,” said Hermione, aggravation growing as she read through the article. “And Hestia Jones too. I _knew_ this was going to happen, now it makes sense why he stepped back from the DMLE but is still so involved with it.” She cursed under her breath. “Bloody Harry, I told him there was something going on. And he accused me of making up theories.”

“Your friends have always lacked brain cells, why are you surprised?” he snapped. Hermione turned to glare at him, but she stopped when she noticed that he’d turned visibly paler.

 _He’s not telling me something_ _,_ she realized. “Draco, do you know anything about Robards?”

“I’ve never had a conversation with him, Granger.”

“I _have_ _,_ ” said Hermione, wondering if she should press or wait him out. “I don’t trust him. Harry has been following him blindly, but I know he lied about everything he told the media about the MRC. And I don’t know why, Draco. What’s the point of starting a rehab program and sabotaging it? What’s the point of starting the MRC and underfunding it?”

“What’s the point of anything?” he scoffed. “They’re politicians, they never made any sense. And who gives a fuck?”

“ _I do_ _,_ ” she snapped. “Something’s clearly happening. Did you know that Fawley and Flint have chairs in the Wizengamot? The _Prophet_ didn’t report it. I had to find out through _The Serpent Wire_ _._ Shouldn’t it be public information that former Death-Eaters are occupying seats on the high court?” said Hermione, her voice growing urgent. Draco averted his gaze. “It’d be fine if we had any proof they’re reformed, but I didn’t find a report from Cartwell recommending their release from the program, so I’m guessing she didn’t think they should be.”

“I think when it comes to things like this, getting involved would only mean a target on your back, Hermione. You don’t know these people.”

“I always have a target on my back, Draco. Are you kidding me? The Ministry has been using all of our names to sell their initiatives. What would it say about me if I stood back and watched it happen? If I watched Harry get into something he doesn’t understand?”

“I don’t think you’re responsible for what Potter does,” he muttered. 

“I’m not,” she agreed. “But I’m responsible for what _I_ do.” She set the paper down, feeling concern and indignation shifting inside of her insistently. 

The problem was that she didn’t know what she _could_ do. If she went public with what she knew -- the irresponsible way the Ministry was handling the MRC and rehab program, the Wizengamot’s disregard for the safety of Muggleborn staff, Hughman’s manipulation of information about the program -- the Ministry could easily twist it all as speculation. Hermione didn’t have any proof, nor anyone who believed her. If she acted carelessly, she’d lose both her job and her access to MRC files. 

_And it would set you further apart from Harry_ _,_ suggested a voice, but Hermione stubbornly shoved it down. “Draco,” she said, searching his face. “Aren’t you friends with Blaise Zabini?”

He looked at her cautiously. “I haven’t talked to him in ages, but he’s a mate. Why?”

“He’s the owner of the _The Serpent Wire_ _,_ isn’t he?”

Draco exhaled a long-suffering sigh. “What do you want, Hermione?”

She pursed her lips, an idea forming. “I need a favor.” 

_

Draco was concerned about Granger. He’d been trying to be subtle about it, but she wouldn’t have noticed anyway. They’d been woken up by Blaise’s owl early Saturday morning, and by the time he had mustered enough energy to strut downstairs, she'd already inhaled two mugs of coffee, disappearing behind a stack of magazines and parchments.

He had left for the Manor, figuring he’d use the time to make an appearance at home; he’d been spending more time than usual at the flat that week. The few times he’d talked to his mother, she’d been visibly stressed -- as usual, no strand of hair out of place, but her tone sounding less firm, her nagging easier to dodge. She’d been unwilling to tell him anything about his father, and Draco was too adept at pushing down any thought of him to insist. 

He came back just as late afternoon was slipping into early evening, only to find Granger in the same spot -- hair a tangled mess, fingers stained with ink, and a look of utter concentration on her face. She’d waved him off when he tried to distract her, and Draco had given up when her cat started growling at him again. 

A couple of hours later, he cautiously approached her. Issues of _The Daily Prophet_ _,_ _The Serpent Wire_ and _The Quibbler_ were spread out over the table, mixed in with stray parchments filled with Hermione’s neat handwriting. Just looking at it made his head throb. “Granger, love,” tried Draco, clearing his throat. “Don’t you think it’s time to take a break?” 

“No.”

“Is this how you were while studying for the OWLs? I thought my exhausted teenage brain had simply hallucinated your omnipresence at the library.” 

“Sure,” she said without sparing him a glance. 

Her dismissal nudged at a dormant, but familiar, part of him. The one that couldn’t quite deal with not getting someone’s attention. Draco had to force down the urge to do something stupid, like set the magazines on fire. 

“Hermione,” he tried again, leaning over the table until she had no choice but to look up at him. Granger blinked rapidly, as if clearing her vision. “You’re obsessing.” 

“That’s rude,” she snapped, then sighed. “Listen, _The Serpent Wire_ did a great inquisitive report on the MRC. I’m trying to draw a correlation table so I can see what fact-checks across the publications. It’ll help me to know what to look for when I’m revising the reports. If I can put everything together, I can show Harry and he’ll be hard pressed to doubt me.”

“And you _have_ to show it to Potter?”

“I don’t want to,” said Granger, leaning back in her chair, “but he’s the only contact I have at the DMLE besides Ron. He's close to Robards and he can get some actual information so I can make a case and send it over to the Wizengamot. Do you think someone who’s been actively lying to the entire community should be running for Minister?”

“I think he’s probably not the only one lying,” said Draco, clearing his throat. “I doubt he’d be able to accomplish much if he didn’t have other people behind him.”

“That means I have more people to take down. But first, I need to find out who these people _are,_ ” she said with an expression of determination. Draco felt both guilt and pride fill his chest. 

He _knew_ who else might be involved, but if he told her--

If he told her, Granger would stop trusting him. She’d wonder about his intentions, about the people he was getting involved with. And Draco couldn’t stand the thought of it. 

“Aren’t you going out, anyway?” she asked, running her eyes down his body. “You look nice.”

“I always look nice,” he said petulantly. “I’m going out. Maybe you should, too.” 

“With whom, exactly?” she muttered sardonically. “The best friend who’s not talking to me or the one who would take it as a proposal?” 

_Those bloody twats_ _._ Despite her joke, he knew she’d been feeling lonely. 

At times, she’d withdraw for minutes on end, like she was too overtaken by her emotions to be fully present. He’d learned to wait it out, to stay by her side in silence, or to gently probe until her mood softened again.

“Didn’t She-Weasel owl you a couple days ago?”

“ _Ginny_ did, and she was nice about it. But I’d hate to put her in an uncomfortable position, and I just--” she faltered. “I guess I need some time, too.”

And something in Draco snapped, mouth moving of its own accord. “You could come with me to Theo’s.” 

Granger tilted her head, a pearl of laughter bursting out of her. When Draco didn’t say anything, she narrowed her eyes. “Oh, you can’t be serious.”

“Why not?” he shrugged casually, knowing the situation would most likely backfire. “They all know about us. Daphne really likes you. And you know that Theo will have the thrill of his life, having you in his house.”

“Pansy doesn’t know,” reasoned Granger. “And she certainly doesn’t like me.”

“I can deal with Pansy,” he said firmly. “Come on. Your research will be waiting for you when we get back, and making fun of Theo is always top-notch entertainment.” She hesitated, but the slight flush of her cheeks told Draco she was pleased he had asked. 

His heart swelled in his chest. 

“Let me get ready,” said Granger, pushing back from her chair and bouncing a little as she raced up the stairs. Any uncertainty he might have felt completely left his mind. 

_ 

Draco had barely stepped into the room when Theo yelled, “You’re late, you fucking wanker…” He was hunched over the bar, mixing drinks and swirling them with a spoon. “All of you are, in fact. Do you know how disrespectful that is?”

Draco didn’t respond, waiting for Granger to appear.

“And you’re not even answering me? Fucking go. I’m not going to be treated like this in my house--” He spun around, the words cut off by the gasp he exhaled when his eyes landed on Granger, who had just stepped into the room. “Am I dreaming?” He pinched his arm. “I had a dream that started exactly like this.”

Granger shifted, then said, in the dryest tone Draco had ever heard from her, “Gross.” 

Theo’s eyes went round, and Draco chuckled. “Theo, you know Granger,” he said flippantly, pressing a hand to the small of her back to guide her towards the table. “Aren’t you going to greet your guest?”

Theo shook his head exaggeratedly, falling in the chair across from them. “Can I take a picture? I’m pretty sure I have a camera here somewhere. And If I don’t, I can find one-- hell, I’m going to buy one-- _ouch_.” He narrowed his eyes at Draco. “I felt that kick.”

“You were supposed to,” he snapped. “Can you act like you’re sane, for once?”

“Not really,” said Theo. “But for you, Granger, I can try.”

Granger pursued her lips. “Somehow I doubt it,” she said. “Or have you already forgotten I spent months talking to you twice a week?” 

“I could never forget that.” The corners of his lips twitched into a sly smile. Draco looked at Granger from the corner of his eye, but she seemed more amused than uncomfortable. “You’re a very memorable person.”

“I like the hair,” she said, pointing to the unruly blue mess on Theo’s head. He beamed. 

“Why, Granger, are you flirting with me?” he drawled. “I can’t deny I’m the better-looking Slytherin. I’m very tempted, but I mean, there’s a code between mates that I’m bound to abide by.”

Draco narrowed his eyes, but Granger was the one who spoke. “You don’t _want_ me to flirt with you. I’d get bored and hex you the first time you got on my nerves.” 

“Sounds kinky.”

“Alright, shut up, Theo,” he snapped, unable to control his scowl.

Granger snorted. “I was kind of expecting to be thrown out of this room as soon as I stepped in, or for one of your family’s ghosts to appear yelling bloody murder. I’m genuinely surprised.”

Theo sat back in the chair with exaggerated casualness, basking in Granger’s attention. “I purged the ghosts once my old man bit the dust. He’s probably rolling in his grave right now, but let’s be honest, I give him reason to do that several times a week.” He wiggled his eyebrows. Granger let out a low chuckle.

The lighthearted atmosphere shattered when they heard the sound of the Floo being activated. Their heads snapped towards the fireplace, and Draco groaned inwardly when his gaze fell on Pansy, whose eyes were burning into them. 

Daphne stepped from behind her, displaying a wide grin. “This is unexpected,” she said, brushing a kiss to Granger’s cheek before sitting beside Theo. 

“Hello, Daphne,” said Granger, her eyes flickering between her and Pansy, who still hadn’t moved. “And Pansy.”

Pansy’s shocked expression immediately smoothed into a sneer, and she flicked her hair behind her shoulder, strutting towards the table as if she was completely at ease. She didn’t say anything as she sat on the other side of Theo, who sprawled his arms over the back of her and Daphne’s chairs, eyes shining with mirth. “This is awkward.”

“What’s awkward, Theodore?” snapped Pansy, her lips pressed in a tight smile. “Does anyone care to explain what’s happening here?”

Draco felt Granger stiffen beside him, but before he could respond, Daphne beat him to it. “Draco and I were never together. He’s been with Hermione all this time,” she said matter-of-factly. “And I’m gay.”

“I fucking knew it,” exclaimed Theo. “Are you shagging Parvati?” 

Daphne’s eyes widened. “What the bloody hell, Theo?” 

“Have you all lost your minds?” said Pansy, staring at them with her lips slightly parted. “You can’t be fucking serious. Draco dating Potter’s mudb--”

“Pansy,” snapped Draco. “You’re the only one here with a problem. Relax, or get out.”

He watched as heat rose to Pansy’s face, and he crossed his arms, matching her stare. 

“You don’t need to defend me,” whispered Granger, low enough so only he could hear it. He ignored her, watching as Pansy’s expression rose and fell, finally settling into neutral indifference. 

“So, when did this start?” she asked casually. 

Draco wasn’t going to answer, but Granger’s elbow nudged his side sharply. “A few weeks into the program,” he muttered reluctantly. 

Pansy remained impassive. “Why are you and Daphne pretending to court?”

“Because my family’s been pressuring me,” said Daphne. “And because Draco--”

“I wanted to help.” He cut her off. Daphne shot him a look, but he pretended not to see it. 

He glanced at Granger, who was exuding unease. Theo, on the other hand, was relaxed, taking sips of his drink with a poorly concealed grin on his lips. 

“And since when do Daphne and Theo know about…” Her eyes darted between Draco and Granger. “Whatever this is?”

“It hasn’t been long,” he grunted. “Listen, Pansy, you gotta keep this to yourself.”

“Who do you think I am?” she sneered. Her eyes burned into him, but he refused to look away. He watched as her lips twisted in a grimace, and she turned to face Theo. “Where are the drinks, Theodore? I’m here to celebrate my freedom from that torture those fools called rehab. I would’ve preferred to do it without one of the people responsible for it, but since I’m apparently the only one here who has a semblance of sanity, I’ll make do.”

“Oh, Pansy,” said Theo, grinning as he stood up. Before he headed towards the bar, he planted a loud, sloppy kiss on her cheek. Pansy’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “I bloody love every single nasty, spiteful, bitchy thing about you.” 

“Oh, sod off, you bloody git.”

_

A while later, Draco sneaked onto the balcony for a smoke. The tension had seeped out of the room once the drinks began pouring, and Theo was doing a good job of dragging Granger’s discomfort out of her, one over-the-top (and likely fabricated) anecdote at a time. 

Despite their last interaction, Daphne had softened up by several large glasses of Mimosas; the best she could muster was a weak glare. Pansy would be a tougher nut to crack, but she wasn’t as immune to Theo’s theatrics as she pretended to be. 

Draco watched it unfold in front of him, wondering if he had made the right choice, cataloguing the way Granger did not quite fit with his group of friends. She didn’t have Daphne’s poise, or Pansy’s haughty superiority, or Theo’s insouciance. And she was too bloody _nice_ to indulge in their hobby of poking at each other’s sensitive spots. 

But she _tried._ She listened to Theo’s stories with patience, always with a smart comment to offer, and asked about Daphne’s life like she was genuinely interested.

He left the room before he gave in the urge to pull her into a kiss. 

“Are you using her?” asked Pansy, materializing by his side. Draco turned to face her, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Give me a cigarette,” she demanded, holding out a hand.

Draco slowly pulled the pack out of his pocket. Pansy roughly snatched it from his fingers, leaning against the railing before lighting up a cigarette and shoving the pack against his chest. “So? Are you? I don’t know what that swot has to offer besides a good word with Potter, but if that’s worth anything to you, I won’t judge.” 

“We’re not in Hogwarts anymore, Pansy,” he chuckled. “My life isn’t a game.”

She gave him an unimpressed glance. “Isn’t that what you’re doing with Daphne?”

“I’m helping Daphne,” he said flatly. 

“You’re getting something out of it. Or do you want to pretend her father didn’t put in a good word to get you out of the program?”

“Is that what he did for you?”

“He didn’t, but Robards did,” she chuckled. “He told me he has plans for me. And when he becomes Minister, I’ll be right there with him.”

A muscle in Draco’s jaw tensed. “You don’t know what you’re getting into with them,” he said firmly. “Robards running for Minister and having meetings with Douglass Greengrass behind the scenes? With everything that’s been happening in the Wizengamot? That’s not something you want to get involved with.”

“Aren’t _you_ involved with it, Draco?” said Pansy, deliberately raising her eyebrows. 

“I’m just biding my time,” he muttered, eyes darting to the balcony’s door. Granger was examining Theo’s large bookshelves while he eagerly trailed after her, gesticulating at each book she picked up. She couldn’t possibly hear them, but he still felt jittery. “Douglass wants power for the sake of power. And he’s made it clear he wants _us_ to get it for him. Doesn’t that sound familiar to you?”

She offered him a sly smile. “Maybe, but you don’t get to judge me. Much less offer me your patronizing advice, not when you’re shagging Hermione Granger _behind the scenes_ ,” she fired back. “I’m doing what’s best for me and my family. Can you say the same?” 

“Don’t worry about my family, Pansy. The only thing I need from you is to shut the hell up,” he said in a low voice. Pansy leaned towards him, and Draco jerked his face away, taking a drag of the cigarette, watching how she looked at him under heavy-lidded eyes. “Is that the move you pulled on Robards?” 

“I don’t need to pull a move on you, Draco. I was just checking something,” she said, taking a step back. “You’re being so incredibly foolish, it’s actually funny.” She hurled her cigarette over the railing. “But it’s your bed, so _lie in it_ , and all that jazz.” She let out a raspy chuckle. “She’s got some nerve to act so superior when she was shagging you the entire time. I wonder what Hughman would think of that--”

He narrowed his eyes. “Shut up.”

“Can you imagine what people would think of her, if that ever got out?” she smirked. “I’m just saying, I guess she's not as morally superior as she’d like us to believe.”

“Leave her alone, Pansy.”

“Oh please, Granger’s a big girl, she can handle herself without you acting like her lap dog. I know better.”

“You don’t know anything, especially about Granger,” he said, smashing the butt of his cigarette on the iron railing. “I don’t know much either, but I can tell you this. Whatever it is that Robards and Douglass are up to, it’s going to blow up in their faces. And I’m not going to be there for it. But well, it’s your bed, so lie in it, and all that jazz.”

She patted his chest lightly. “I could say the exact same thing about you and Granger,” she said. “I’m not going to tell anyone about it, but I won’t refrain from throwing it in your face when it crashes and burns.” 

“I wouldn’t expect anything else from you,” he said, pushing her hand away. “But you won’t get the chance to, I promise.”

They stared each other down for another moment, then in unspoken agreement, they headed back into Theo’s sitting room. He knew Pansy enough to hear what she hadn’t said -- she would be there for him, if it came down to it. And he would be there for her. 

Just like they’d always been, even when they didn’t particularly like each other. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man, I was almost afraid I wouldn't be able to post today because I'm legit buried in work and school stuff (why is it so much easier to write this story than my undergraduate thesis? lmao root for this author to graduate, she needs all the luck she can get). 
> 
> This chapter is on the shorter side, but it's also very important plot-wise. I know I've been keeping you guys wondering, but all the shenanigans will be revealed VERY soon, until then, I hope it's fun to try to puzzle out the MANY clues :) I've read every comment and I appreciate it so much, I'll answer them as soon as I have some time. Let me know your thoughts :) I'm also on https://masterofinfinities.tumblr.com/ sometimes.


	26. Bright Red Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter edited by the best beta @jeparlepasfrancais.

"The days were bright red, and **every time we kissed there was another apple to slice into pieces** (...) Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us. These, our bodies, possessed by light. **_Tell me we’ll never get used to it_**." Scheherazade, Richard Siken

* * *

When Hughman asked her to represent the MRC at yet another Ministry function, Hermione’s first thought was to politely, but firmly, decline. 

She changed her mind when she saw the new posters plastered over every inch of the building -- huge black and white photographs of Robards, who pointed to his campaign slogan, _For a Safer Wizarding World_ , as he smilingly entreated the viewer to cast a vote in his favor in the upcoming election. 

Hermione wanted to rip down every single one. 

So she returned to Hughman’s office, grudgingly accepted his request, then wasted an entire afternoon trying to find a last-minute gown. 

Later that evening, she found herself standing before the doors to _Flitterby Theater_. She took a deep breath, smoothed the wrinkles in her dark red dress, and revised her plan: she’d mingle, steer clear of the media vultures, and tell Shacklebolt about her concerns. 

And she wouldn’t, under any circumstance, spend the night staring at Draco while he twirled around holding Daphne’s hand instead of hers.

_

The ballroom’s gilded ceiling and serpentine staircase reminded Hermione of _The Great Gatsby_. She smiled politely at the wizard welcoming guests at the entrance to the balcony, where people sat around small bistro tables with a bird’s eye view of the bustle on the ballroom floor. 

Hermione stood to the side and looked over the railing, noting the dark marquetry floor glistening under the large chandelier, and the buffet tables scattered around the dance floor, covered in food and what looked like chocolate fountains. 

Unlike everyone else, Hermione wasn’t there to eat, dance, or network. And she certainly wasn’t there to get Hughman another donation that he wouldn’t put to good use. She was there because it gave her the perfect opportunity to talk to the Minister.

But first, she could relax a little. Hermione made her way down the twisting stairs to the ground floor, smiling in relief when she spotted Ginny’s lone figure. She was huddled in front of a buffet table, dipping cheese sticks in chocolate sauce and throwing sheepish looks over her shoulder. “Why do you look like you’re doing something illegal?”

Ginny spun around with wide eyes. “For Morgana’s sake, Hermione, you need to wear a bell!” she exclaimed. “Quidditch season has a very strict diet, and it doesn’t include fondue. I’m scared my coach will materialize out of nowhere to make me run laps.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” said Hermione with a wink. “Where’s your fiancé?”

“At this point, who knows? Robards found him as soon as we got here and immediately dragged him off to do some networking. This party must have at least five hundred people. I gave up on keeping track of his whereabouts,” she shrugged. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“I wasn’t going to, but my boss asked me last minute. Speaking of politicians, have you seen Shacklebolt around anywhere?”

“I don’t think he’s here yet, but like I said, five hundred people,” said Ginny, waving her hand at the mass of people. “How are you, Hermione? I know things with Harry--”

“Ginny, this is a party,” she said firmly, scooping up a flute of champagne from a passing tray. 

“The two most thick-headed people I know,” sighed Ginny. “And I’m a Weasley, so that’s saying something,” Hermione pretended to be fascinated with her drink. “I’m glad you’re here. You'll distract me from this boredom.”

“You love these parties.”

“ _Well_ ,” said Ginny, dragging the word until it was cut off by a dreamy sigh. “I definitely do. Everyone dresses nice and the food’s good. And free.” 

“Is that the goal for the wedding?”

Ginny batted her lashes at Hermione. “If people talk about anything but how spectacular I look, then my wedding was a disaster.”

“Is that why the catering’s budget is so low?”

“The guests will feed on my beauty,” she retorted, and Hermione chuckled, sipping on her champagne as she scanned the crowd. 

She wasn’t surprised to see Daphne and Draco from across the room, locked in conversation with a group of older witches who looked vaguely familiar. Daphne looked graceful in a delicate ivory gown, a sharp contrast to the gloomy looking man on her arm. 

Hermione bit back a smile as she drank in the impassive expression in Draco’s face. He looked handsome in a tailored three-piece suit, stark black, with the exception of a light lilac tie. _Soft tosser_ , she thought, charmed by his gesture and the way his blond hair curled around his ears, slightly longer than he used to keep it. 

It always struck Hermione dumb, this wild attraction she felt every time she as much as glanced in his direction. 

“You know, Hermione,” said Ginny, as if making an offhand comment. “You have this uncanny ability to spot Malfoy almost immediately no matter where we go. Isn't it odd?” 

Hermione tore her eyes away from him and downed the rest of her champagne. “That sounds unlikely.” 

“Really? Because there was that time at the bar, and then at the restaurant, and now here. Three times does not a coincidence make.”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to suggest,” said Hermione. “Daphne was wearing pretty clothes on all of those occasions, I was admiring them.” 

Ginny narrowed her eyes. “You haven’t cared about clothes a day in your life, Hermione.”

Hermione shrugged, hoping against hope that her expression didn’t give anything away. “People change.” 

“Not that drastically,” said Ginny. “You know you can tell me anything, right?” Hermione paused. It took a long moment for Ginny’s words to sink in. 

“I know.”

“I don’t know if you do,” said Ginny, a crease between her brows as she stared at Hermione steadily, making her shift uncomfortably. 

Hermione’s eyes darted towards Draco again. 

He’d been so much _braver_ than her, pulling her into his tightly-knit group of friends without a second thought. 

The idea of telling one her best friends -- it hadn’t crossed her mind as more than a faint _what if_. Something she’d deal with in the future, if she absolutely had to. She hadn’t even considered opening up to Ginny. And she’d been so sure she’d be fearless, when it happened. Hermione hadn’t even noticed she already had plenty of opportunities to do so. 

_He was right_. She’d been running from him all this time. 

“We should get dinner sometime. And talk,” said Hermione. She didn’t quite expect the unguarded warmth in Ginny’s face. 

It made Hermione want to pull her into a hug. 

“Anytime you want,” said Ginny, and she smiled, feeling affection blossom inside of her. 

_

Before long, Harry had appeared, sans Robards, to drag Ginny away to chat with people that she absolutely _needed_ to meet. 

There was an uncomfortable moment where neither Harry nor Hermione knew how to greet one another. Years of familiarity, when they had walked up to each other demanding hugs, had fallen away with the sting of their fight; instead they waved awkward hellos. The moment had lasted just long enough for Ginny to promise to owl, but it had felt like forever. 

Hermione didn’t have time to reflect on their interaction. Standing alone in a place like this would single her out like a flashing sign over her head, and she immediately began to scan the room for another familiar face. 

She felt a rush of relief when she found Neville and Hannah locked in conversation across the room. She started in their direction, but Draco materialized beside her before she took more than a step forward. “Go away,” muttered Hermione, ignoring his low chuckle. 

“Your head is getting bigger by the day. You’re near the chocolate fountain, woman. Your first thought is that I’m here to harass you?”

“There’s four buffet tables just on this floor.”

“The food here looks more enticing,” he said with a smirk. She pressed her lips together in an effort not to smile. “You think I didn’t notice you looking at me?”

She noticed Neville and Hannah walking further away, and she _could --_ no, she _should_ \-- go after them, but she felt anchored in place. 

“You’re shameless,” she said in a low voice. “Doesn’t this seem a little ridiculous? We saw each other this morning.”

From the way Draco’s smirk softened into a smile, she knew it wasn’t about that. “You look absolutely beautiful, Hermione Granger,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, eyes focused on the food. “No question about it.” 

“Thank you,” whispered Hermione. “But you should go.” 

“Oh, there you are,” exclaimed Daphne, appearing beside Draco with a demure smile that contrasted with the sharpness in her voice. “You’re a git for leaving me alone with those women, and I’ll make you pay for it. And hi, Hermione, you look amazing.” 

“You too, Daph.”

“I said I was going to the loo, give me a break,” muttered Draco.

“You didn’t even go in the direction of the loo. You could’ve at least pretended before walking straight over to Hermione.”

“Maybe I didn’t care,” he shrugged. “They were all going on about getting a meeting with your father, it was making my brain melt.” 

Daphne scoffed. “As if there’s much left to melt.”

Hermione couldn’t control her snicker. “Is this funny to you, Granger?” said Draco, his face twisting into a scowl. “I’ll have you know that I’d defend you against anyone insulting your intelligence.”

“You say that because there’s a one percent probability of that ever happening,” retorted Hermione. “People don’t insult _my_ brain.”

Daphne gave her a grin, both of them laughing at Draco’s sputtering. “I knew I liked you for a reason, Hermione,” she said, winking at her. 

“As much as I’m enjoying both of you ganging up on me,” said Draco, pointing over Hermione’s shoulder, “Theo’s walking over here. And he’s not alone.” 

Hermione tried but failed to be subtle as she turned around, joining Draco and Daphne as they all watched Theo approach them. If the neon blue of his hair wasn’t enough to catch people’s attention, the much older woman in his arm would be. 

She looked to be in her mid-forties, striking in a bronze cocktail dress which hugged her curves and fell just above her knees. A slightly darker mink shawl was draped over her arms, accentuating her bare shoulders. The crystals on her high-heels sparkled like diamonds.

Theo’s brazen confidence was almost palpable, like he was feeding on the scandalized gasps and the _Prophet_ ’s cameras snapping in his direction. The closer they got, the more amused he looked, as if he was the only one in on the joke. 

Hermione bit back a smile. Theo was an acquired taste, but she admired how unapologetic he could be. 

“Friends,” he greeted, “this is Georgina. Dear, this is Draco, Daphne and Granger.”

She patted his arm lightly. “No introductions necessary,” she said. Her voice was low and hoarse, as if she’d spent the past forty years smoking two packs a day. “I frequently cross paths with Narcissa and Asta at charity functions, and everyone knows Hermione Granger.”

Hermione smiled politely. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Are you friends with my mother?” asked Daphne.

“Of course not,” said Georgina, no inflection in her voice. “Asta and Narcissa belong to a club that I can’t join, if you know what I mean.” She arched a brow. Blotches of red appeared on Daphne’s cheeks, and she forced a laugh. 

“Georgina owns luxury boutiques all over Europe,” said Theo, “including in the Muggle World. But right now she’s retired.”

She planted a kiss on Theo’s cheek. He beamed, seemingly oblivious to Draco’s snort. “I have much more interesting things to spend my time on,” she said. “But I’m _retired_ , not dead. I do fancy events like this one. It’s a good way to keep up with what’s happening in the Wizarding World, isn’t it?” 

“I always say it’s our duty to keep informed,” said Theo. 

“What exactly does a money-grab event like this inform you of, Theo?” asked Draco. “Seriously, how many galleons does the Ministry’s Beast Divison need?” 

“Who’s relevant, for one,” said Theo.

“Theodore is right,” said Georgina. “The most prominent people in our community are here.”

“And have none of you noticed the candidates for Minister of Magic using this fundraiser like their personal campaign rally?” pointed out Theo.

That made Hermione pause. “What do you think of them?” she asked the group, turning around long enough to grab another flute of champagne. From the corner of her eye, she saw the subtle shift in Draco’s body. 

“Robards is a shoo-in,” said Daphne. 

“Is he?” asked Theo. “Hestia Jones is nothing to sniff at.” 

“She’s lovely,” said Georgina, looking down at her nails. “I’ve heard good things about her. But Gawain Robards has more experience, he was a Head of Department for years.”

“That’s true,” agreed Theo. “Didn’t you tell me people are talking about him and Potter, too?”

“Oh, yes,” she nodded. “That certainly boasts his credibility. Being Harry Potter’s mentor means a lot. In my circles, at least,” she said, looking pointendly at Daphne and Draco. 

“My father only speaks good things about him,” said Daphne. “How about you, Draco?

“We don’t talk about politics,” he grunted. 

“Hestia Jones has been fighting for blood equality,” said Hermione, “and she’s a former Order member. I’d say that’s just as important as Robards’ work in the DMLE.”

Theo looked at her inquisitively. “It begs the question, though,” he paused, waving his hand towards Hermione dramatically. “Why hasn’t _she_ gotten Potter’s support?”

That made Hermione falter, and the gleam in Theo’s eyes made it clear he had noticed. “I thought we’d learned better than to follow someone blindly,” she said, recovering. “No matter who they are. Harry’s support shouldn’t be your sole reason to vote for Robards.”

“Oh, it’s not,” he said. “Can’t say the same for most people.” 

“The race has just started. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said Draco. 

She was sure it was more for her benefit than what he really thought, but Hermione wanted to tell him she didn’t need it. The conversation had confirmed her suspicions: Robards’s political ambitions had greatly benefitted from his connection to Harry. _The Serpent Wire_ had alluded as much, and it was a thought that had nagged her since Harry first dismissed her questions, what felt like ages ago. What confused Hermione was Daphne’s endorsement. _Was the rehab program enough to make Robards so popular with the purebloods? Or was something else going on?_

“Why don’t we go to the balcony for a smoke?” asked Theo. “The _Prophet_ photographer’s obsession stopped being adorable ten minutes ago.”

Hermione frowned. She hadn’t even noticed him. 

“Oh, no,” said Daphne, wrapping her hand around Draco’s forearm. “If we go, Draco’s never coming back inside, and we’ve got more people to talk to.”

“We’ve talked to _everyone_ , Daphne--”

“No, we haven’t.”

Georgina offered them a faint smile. “Oh, young couples. I have to say, your mothers seem to be ecstatic about your union. It’s all they talk about whenever I bump into them.”

“Oh, Daphne and Draco are the most adorable couple,” said Theo, his eyes focused on Hermione. “They can’t seem to keep their hands off each other.”

Draco cleared his throat in a low threat, and Hermione felt the immediate urge to escape. The intricacies of the Slytherins’ mind-games eluded her, and she wasn’t interested in puzzling Theo out. 

“You do make a beautiful couple,” said Georgina. “Don’t you think, Hermione?” 

Hermione ignored the way her stomach churned and forced a smile. “They look good together.” 

She felt Draco’s eyes burn into her for a long moment, almost like pressure in her head, urging her to meet his gaze. She dug her nails into her palm and pushed it back down. She wouldn’t be able to keep a straight face, if she looked at him. 

“You know, Georgina, now that I think of it,” started Draco. “You’re the one who gave Theo those lovely Muggle sports hats, aren’t you?” Theo’s eyes narrowed. “He talks about you all the time, to _everyone_. We can’t get him to shut up about you, in fact.”

Georgina frowned in confusion, but in a blink, the smile returned to her face. “Oh, no, that’s Adelaine. She’s the one in our group who enjoys that sort of thing,” she said in a pleasant voice. “You used to spend a lot of time with her, didn’t you, Theo?” 

“We were just acquaintances. Draco’s like that, dear, you mention something to him _one_ time and he never forgets about it,” said Theo, the scowl he shot Draco betraying his smooth tone. “Why don’t we take a walk? You look so beautiful, it’d be a shame to not let people be dazzled by you.”

“Oh, you flatter me.”

“It’s only the truth,” he grinned. “And you told me you’d introduce me to that editor of that french magazine. I think I just saw him heading upstairs.”

“Alright, alright,” said Georgina. Her tone was agreeable, but her grip on Theo’s arm was visibly tighter. “It was very nice to meet all of you.” 

Theo didn’t let them return the sentiment before dragging her away. Before they went too far, he looked over his shoulder, his eyes shooting daggers towards Draco. 

“What was that about?” asked Hermione. 

“The git thinks he can mess with me. I bet a thousand galleons he’s getting an earful right now,” said Draco, sounding awfully smug. “I don’t think this one will stick for long.” 

“That’s one of the richest women in Britain,” said Daphne. “New money. I have no idea how Theo meets these people. The half-blood socialites are not too fond of us.” 

Hermione shook her head. Over the years, she had devoured every book published on Wizarding culture -- she could recite long-dead rituals and point out celebratory dates in her sleep -- but there were some things you couldn’t learn from a book. “She made it seem like Purebloods don’t like her,” she said.

“It’s mutual,” clarified Daphne. “Everyone pretends for the sake of keeping up appearances, we all mingle together in major events, but there’s a clear divide between wealthy half-bloods and purebloods.” 

“What Daphne means,” said Draco, a smarmy smile on his lips, “is that our mothers keep inviting them for charity functions because they’ve got a lot of money to blow. But it definitely doesn’t mean they’re seen as equals.” 

Hermione frowned. “Why would they subject themselves to that?”

“They don’t care,” shrugged Draco. “They’ve got influence in every major social circle. It’s why Theo likes them so much.”

“And likely how he always knows so bloody much about everything,” added Daphne. “There’s no way Draco and I could get the sort of information he does.”

Draco huffed. “I’m not sleeping with women twenty years older to get some gossip.” 

She didn’t think that was the extent of it. Theo had tapped into a network where he could find information with ease, and he had surrounded himself with a circle of contacts who weren’t restricted to the insular world of Pureblood culture. There was no telling how many people he mixed with, or had access to. 

If Hermione had Theo’s connections, she wouldn’t be spending most of her evenings buried in reports and magazines, searching for clues. 

“You’re not their type,” said Daphne. “These women want fun, easygoing wizards to help them blow off steam. Your brooding wouldn’t cut it.”

Draco arched a brow in a perfect expression of entitlement. “Has it ever crossed your mind that I’m simply not interested in being fun with all of you?”

“Does Hermione think you’re fun?”

“She obviously does,” he snapped. “Granger?”

Hermione was about to respond when she spotted the unmistakable figure of Shacklebolt. “I’ve got to go, I’ll see you both later.” 

Shacklebolt was across the room, surrounded by a group of men who burst into perfectly timed laughter at almost everything he said. Hermione waited for the right moment to approach, a polite smile on her face. Before too long, he turned and nodded at her.

“Minister, it’s been so long since I’ve seen you.”

“Hermione,” he greeted. “It has been, indeed. Have you met any of these gentlemen? They’re all part of the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Hermione here has been helping us with the MRC, but our goal is to move her to one of our core departments soon.” 

“Oh, I’m happy where I am.”

“Maybe one of you could convince her to join us? I haven’t had any luck, but the DIMC is one of our most successful programs.”

“Oh, it’d be my pleasure,” said one of the balding men. His leering smile reminded Hermione of Cormac’s lechery. “We could use a charmer like you. And a friend of Harry Potter’s too? You’d excel!”

The corner of Hermione’s mouth quirked. “I’m very happy where I am, thank you,” she said coolly. 

“Oh, come on, sweetheart,” he said in a patronizing tone. “You won’t want to play with broken toys forever, will you? _Our_ department specializes in negotiation, and--”

“I know all about what your department does, thank you very much,” she interrupted, turning to Shacklebolt. “I’m sorry to bother you, Minister, but I’d appreciate it if we could chat for a minute.”

“Oh, sure, I have to get upstairs to prepare for my speech. Will you walk with me?” he said. “I’ll catch up with you later, boys.”

Hermione shot them a flat smile before following Shacklebolt, raising her voice to make herself heard over the noise. “Minister, I have some concerns about the MRC,” she said, wanting to get straight to the point. 

“What?” he said, grinning at someone who yelled his name. “What kind of concern?”

“The rehab program, more specifically,” said Hermione, power-walking to keep up with his quick pace. “I don’t think it’s being conducted in a responsible manner. They’ve been--”

“Hermione,” he interrupted. “Have you talked to your boss about this?”

“Hughman isn’t open to criticism. Our chief healer, Edina Cartwell, tried to get a hearing with the Wizengamot and she was ignored. I can’t help but--”

“Have _you_ tried to get a meeting with the Wizengamot?”

Hermione sighed. “I had other issues that the Wizengamot didn’t handle well. It’s not receptive to anything regarding the MRC. It’s why I’m coming to you.”

“Well, I apologize, Hermione, but I can’t get involved--”

“Aren’t you the Minister?” she said bluntly. “Your job is to get involved.”

Shacklebolt exhaled a breath and stopped in the bottom of the stairs, facing Hermione with a patient expression. “The departments are very independent, Hermione. The DMLE is the MRC’s liaison, it’d be disrespectful of me to intervene.” 

_That sounds like a cop-out_ , thought Hermione, making sure that her expression showed how unimpressed she felt. “What about the Wizengamot?”

“The Wizengamot is the court, they have many responsibilities--”

“Are you saying the MRC isn’t a priority?” she accused. “Because that’s not what the Ministry has told the media repeatedly in the past couple of years.” 

“Everything is a priority to the Ministry, Hermione,” he said firmly. 

“Is it?” she asked skeptically. Hermione was aware she was bordering on disrespectful, but Shacklebolt wasn’t trying very hard to fool her, and she knew better than to believe the wizard holding the highest position in Britain didn’t have any power. “I’m sorry for being so blunt, but do you have any insight into how the MRC works? Robards seems to be handling everything, and he doesn’t even work in the DMLE anymore.”

He cleared his throat. “Hermione, you know that I respect you, and consider you a friend,” he started, sounding strangely exhausted. “You’ve got a good thing going at the MRC, and you’ve got a future in the Ministry. Is this really important?” 

Hermione squared her shoulders. “I’m not trying to stir up trouble, sir, but I seem to be the only one who noticed there’s something _wrong_ with the way things have been handled. Death-Eaters are being released without any official recommendation--”

“Listen,” he cut off her off. “The MRC is being handled by professionals. You’re in good hands, Hermione.”

“But--”

“I’ve got to make a speech now, but it was good catching up with you,” he said, clapping his hand on her shoulder before swiftly stepping up the stairs. Hermione started to follow him, but he was faster than her, and before she realized, he had disappeared through the crowd.

She exhaled sharply, grounding herself by skimming her fingertips over the cool surface of the staircase’s railing. After a moment, Hermione turned around, only to find a strangely familiar face walking towards her, a hand raised in greeting. “Hermione!”

She immediately darted towards the thick of the party, focused on reaching the loos. She ignored her aching feet and marched forward, sighing in relief when she pushed open the door and found the room empty.

“What am I doing?” She turned on the tap and pressed her wet palms to either side of her face. 

Hermione remembered the stories that her father used to read her before bed. In one of her favorites, Don Quixote saw ferocious giants where there were only windmills. His friends warned him of his delusion, but he refused to listen, insisting on defeating them, and ending up with nothing but wounds. 

“You have _evidence_ ,” she told herself. “You just need more.” 

“You talk to yourself now, Granger?”

Hermione spun around, her palm slipping from her face and falling to her chest. “I didn’t hear you come in!” 

“You were too busy glaring at the mirror,” said Draco, stepping towards her, mouth twitching into his familiar half-smile. “Have I told you how beautiful you look?”

“Yes,” she said, taking a step back. “You shouldn’t be here.” 

“I saw you running here after talking to Shacklebolt, I wanted to see if you were okay.”

“You could’ve just asked me later,” snapped Hermione, and he stilled. “My conversation with the Minister went as well as expected. I just came here to get a breather.”

“You want me to leave?”

Hermione tilted her head towards him. “You should. We already got photographed together. If we keep acting this stupid, people are going to find out.” 

Draco rubbed a hand over his chin. “Not the question I asked.”

“Maybe you can stay,” she mumbled low. “Just while I get myself together.” 

“From balconies to solariums to hallways to public loos,” he snickered under his breath, closing the distance between them. Hermione let him place his hands on her hips and spin her around, until they were both facing the mirror. “Theo’s witch said Daphne and I look good together, and you agreed.”

“It didn’t bother me,” she frowned. She studied his reflection in the mirror, watched him lean down to brush a soft kiss below her ear. A tremble ran down her spine, and she let her head fall against his shoulder. “That’s not what bothered me.”

“No?” muttered Draco.“What did?”

Hermione chewed on her bottom lip, watching him kiss the column of her throat, feeling heat flow through her body, settling low in her belly. 

Draco’s fingers skimmed over the hollow of her collarbone, and she pressed her eyes tight, cursing herself because she’d let him do anything he wanted, right there, right then. “Granger?” His voice sounded husky, only intensifying the thundering of her heart. 

She opened her eyes again, finding his dark, heavy-lidded eyes. His entire body was pressed against her back. “I think we look good together, Draco,” she muttered, allowing herself another moment of this, her body shivering. “I don’t need anyone else to think that.” 

His warm breath brushed her cheek, and he pressed their faces together, bottomless eyes gleaming at her. “Then what bothered you?”

“I just wanted to dance with you.” 

Draco cupped her chin with his hand, tilting her head back until he could take her mouth in a kiss. And she allowed herself a moment of this, too. 

_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta mentioned a while back how cool it'd be to see Theo with one of his ladies, and I was like, "OH MY GOD"!! Self-indulgence at its finest. I hope you guys like it :)
> 
> You might've noticed I put up the final chapter count. It used to be a bit more, but I've recently reworked the outlines, and I'm putting it up so I'll commit to that number. I know things are moving slowly (but surely) but hang in there, lots of developments to come ;) 
> 
> Spoiler alert: next chapter has my favorite dramione interaction of this entire monster. 
> 
> I finally got to reply to your comments ♡♡ I can't describe how thankful I am every time you guys take the time to tell me your thoughts! I feel spoiled and the happiest.


	27. The Poor Weld

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @jeparlepasfrancais, as always, has done the most amazing work editing this <3 she's the best beta/editor an author could have. 
> 
> If you want to make the experience a bit better, play ['Never Grow Old' by The Cranberries](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HQy1if_QNPw) for the first scene of this chapter :)

" **W _ha_** ** _t happens next?_ ** The way you slam your body into mine reminds me I'm alive, but monsters are always hungry, darling, and _they're only a few steps behind you_ , finding the flaw, the poor weld, the place where we weren't stitched up quite right, **the place they could almost slip right through if the skin wasn't trying to keep them out** , to keep them here, on the other side of the theater where the curtain keeps rising." - Snow and Dirty Rain, Richard Siken

* * *

Hermione woke up to Draco’s face looming over her. 

“What the hell?” she cursed, jerking up in bed. He let out a low chuckle in response. “Is this somehow funny to you? You’re so creepy.”

“I wasn’t watching you, Granger. I’ve been trying to wake you up for ages now, but you could sleep through a duel,” he said with a smile. Hermione frowned as she looked him over. He was still wearing the same clothes from the Ministry ball, but had ditched his jacket, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to expose his arms. Hermione fell back on the bed. “Come on, get up.” 

“You were going to stay at the Manor,” said Hermione, looking at him suspiciously. “That’s what you told me at the ball. What are you doing here?”

“It amazes me how fast your brain can work when you’re barely awake. No one else would have this many irritating questions,” he said, voice just above a whisper. Hermione grimaced but took his outstretched hand. “Salazar knows I asked for a dull witch.” 

“Go look for her, then, and let me sleep,” retorted Hermione, letting him pull her up. 

“What do you think I do during my free time? Polish my galleons?” 

“Your money _is_ your most attractive quality, after all,” she muttered. “Why are we whispering?” she asked, in a normal voice. 

“Shhh,” he said, glancing over his shoulder with an alarmed look, Hermione followed his gaze, only to find Crookshanks lying on the carpet near the bed, purring loudly. “That horrendous beast is sleeping, I don’t need him hissing at me right now.” 

“Did you just call my cat--” she started as Draco pulled her hand, dragging her to the first floor. Her voice broke off breathlessly. “What is this?” 

He had pushed all of the furniture away, the room as vacant as the first time she’d been there. 

But it was far from empty, now. 

The air was humming with magic. Conjured bubbles of light twinkled in shades of white, green and neon blue, floating around their bodies and making her feel like she’d walked straight into a dream. The floor felt warm under her bare feet, and when she strode forward, the bubbles blinked and followed her, like extensions of energy rolling from Draco’s body towards her.

“Draco Malfoy,” she muttered, an expression of awe transforming her face. He looked relaxed as he observed her, but Hermione knew how much concentration it took to keep such sublime displays of magic alive, how much effort he must be directing towards these little beads of light. 

It made her mind go silent, her thoughts a muddle of confusion, amazement and affection. If someone asked her to define the feeling running through her veins, she wouldn’t be able to respond. 

The twitch of his lip suggested amusement, but there was tenderness in his eyes. “Wait just a second.” He swaggered to the kitchen’s countertop, where one of the newer models of Wizarding Wireless Radios was placed.

“Where did you get that?”

“It’s Theo’s,” said Draco, fiddling with the device. “Did you know you can put pre-recorded tapes on them? They even sell Muggle music. Theo has a collection in his house. That’s why I didn’t come here straight away, I was picking it up.” He let out a little hiss of victory when the tape slid into the slot. 

He turned to her just as the slow thrum of a familiar tune began to filter into the room. Draco approached her with slow, deliberate steps. “What’s happening?” 

“You said you wanted to dance with me.” He lifted his shoulders in a casual shrug, as if there was nothing out of ordinary about this. “I wanted to do that, before the night ended.”

“It’s two in the morning, so technically the night already ended--”

He cut her off with an incredulous chuckle. “Granger, can you let me do something nice, for once?” Hermione sighed. She felt almost off-balance, so she only nodded, once. “May I have this dance?” he asked, offering her his hand, head bowed just so. 

The last person that had asked her to dance in a pompous, lofty way had been Victor Krum. This time, the flutter in her stomach was a thousand times stronger, like centaurs locked in a race. Hermione lifted her hand and placed her palm on his, an astounded giggle escaping her lips. 

“I worried for a second there,” muttered Draco, twirling her around once, before pulling her closer body closer to his, his other hand going to the small of her back. 

“You did not,” she shook her head, giving him her half-moon smile. “This is a Muggle song,” pointed out Hermione, finally recognizing the words: _I have a dream, strange it may seem, it was my perfect day._

“Theo’s a fan,” muttered Draco, in that tone of his that implied much more than what he was saying out loud. Hermione smiled knowingly, wrapping her arms around his neck and letting the soft melody wash over them. “I know this isn’t ideal, but...”

 _It isn’t,_ she agreed, because they were dancing in Draco’s living room. His formal clothes were wrinkled, and Hermione’s well-worn pajamas were fraying in the sleeves. Her cheeks had pillow marks and her mass of curls was in its most untamed form. 

But he had woken her up at two in the morning, just to dance with her. 

Somehow, his magic kept the bubbles of light sparkling around them, and the song came to an end, sighing, _This is my perfect day, I hope you'll never grow old._

“It’s not ideal,” said Hermione, raising on her tiptoes to place a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth. Their bodies swayed, and her bare toes bumped gracelessly against his boots. “But it’s just right,” she finished. And he smiled. 

_

The owl from Hestia Jones arrived just as Hermione finished reading Harry’s announcement of support for Robards’s candidacy. 

She set the _Prophet_ down on the dinner table. Draco had left when the sun rose, and Hermione felt too happy, too lighthearted to let the news sour her mood.

Harry’s statement hadn’t been a surprise. He’d spent most of the previous night with Robards, who had thanked him enthusiastically in the speech he’d been asked to give. 

_Not one asked Hestia for a speech,_ thought Hermione, picking up the envelope and running a finger over her engraved name. _Is this election already won?_ she wondered before shaking her head. It was still early in the race -- they were reaching the end of October, and the election wouldn’t be until late February. 

She ripped open the seal, taking out the parchment and reading the note. Hestia was polite, but straight-forward, apologizing for the late notice before inviting her for lunch that afternoon. Hermione frowned. She hadn’t spoken to Hestia since their quick chat at the St. Mungos’ ball, most of which Ron had spent asking about her Quidditch player husband. She and Hestia shared the sort of vague familiarity of any former Order member, but unless she’d been following her work at the Center, she couldn’t think of a plausible reason for the lunch invitation. 

_That’s a lie_. Hermione could guess another reason for her to reach out. She tapped her foot under the table with agitation, then stopped. A meeting with Hestia would be the perfect opportunity for her to dig for new information about the Ministry. Her conversation with Kinglsey still stung, but she could turn it into gunpowder. She’d file him away with the growing list of people who had been foolish enough to doubt her. 

Hermione summoned a quill and scribbled her response before approaching the owl, who was still waiting silently on the window sill.

_

She’d chosen the same restaurant where Hermione had come with Ginny. Hestia was already waiting for her in a private dining room, looking sharp in tailored, navy-blue robes. Her jet-black hair was pulled into a low ponytail, red lips curved into a smile. She started to stand when she saw Hermione. “Oh, no need to get up,” Hermione rushed to say, quickly sitting across from her. 

“It’s great to see you, Hermione,” said Hestia. “They have a great selection of Elf-made wine, can I get some for you?”

“Sure,” she agreed, watching Hestia tap the tip of her wand on the side of the table. A waiter materialized, taking their wine order and handing them the lunch menu. “I didn’t know this restaurant had private rooms,” said Hermione, subtly looking around.

They were sitting at a small, round table for four, surrounded by mirrored walls that gave them a glimpse into the rest of the restaurant, while staying invisible from the rest of the patreons. 

“Most do,” said Hestia. “I always feel so uppity when I book one, but since I announced my candidacy, the media has been following me more than usual. If they spotted the two of us together…”

“Oh, say no more,” chuckled Hermione. She waited for the waiter to set the burgundy wine glass in front of her before continuing. “I was surprised by your invitation.”

“Were you?” asked Hestia, lifting a single eyebrow as she smiled. “I’m sure you’ve been following our current political landscape.”

“I have,” agreed Hermione. “But I’m not a politician, and I don’t work for the Ministry.”

“You work for the MRC,” she pointed out. “A Ministry affiliate. Honestly, Hermione, you’re too smart to undermine the influence you have there.”

Hermione chuckled. “Maybe with the general public, but it’s been the exact opposite at the Ministry.” 

Hestia’s expression changed, and she set her glass down, leaning forward. “Have you had any problems with the Ministry?” she said in a serious voice.

It took Hermione a second to shake off her surprise. Getting the attention she’d been begging for was almost unsettling. “Well, you’re a Wizengamot judge, so you’ve probably heard that I’ve had issues with the rehab program.”

“No, not at all,” she frowned. “The full court doesn’t sit unless it’s a high-profile case. For most cases, only a few members are required to participate. Unless I’m directly involved in a case, I won’t know anything about it.”

“Do you choose the cases you’re involved with?” 

“No, they’re assigned to judges based on areas of specialization,” she explained. “I’m interested in the creation of laws and initiatives that will move along the fight for blood equality, especially when it comes to education. The Rehab Program was in the criminal division, which doesn’t fall under my scope.”

“Do you know who these people are?” asked Hermione, unsure if she should reveal her concerns. The same people that had overseen her conflict with Rookwood were the ones that dismissed Cartwell and requested the release of Death-Eaters. 

“I can get names for you,” she nodded. “What exactly are you worried about?”

Hestia’s gaze was still attentive. Hermione wondered if it was part of her political charm. She was sure they all knew how to make people feel heard. She wouldn’t let it bother her. Hestia Jones clearly wanted something from Hermione, so it’d be only fair if she got something back. 

“I think there’s something strange going on with the MRC,” said Hermione. “I was attacked by one of the participants in the rehab program, and the Wizengamot punished him with a meaningless fine. He wasn’t removed from the program, or even my meetings. When I insisted that the Wizengamot reconsider, I was removed from my position and ‘promoted’ to pushing paper. I might as well have been fired,” Hestia’s eyes narrowed. “On top of that, other rehab participants, mostly former Death-Eaters, are being released against the recommendation of the healer in charge. She also tried to go to the Wizengamot, and had her concerns dismissed. The strangest thing is Robards somehow became the MRC’s representative, and he’s been lying about the rehab program since it started.”

“How did you get this information?” asked Hestia, sounding more interested than doubtful.

“I read through all of his public statements since the beginning of the MRC, and cross-checked them with internal reports, which I’m pretty sure have been tampered with. In a short period of time, several death-Eaters have been released, many of whom then gave glowing interviews to the _Daily Prophet_. I know some of them are now working for the Ministry, in the Wizengamot and other departments. I don’t think that’s a coincidence.” Hermione’s blood was rushing to her face, and she took a sip of her wine, wishing it was ice water. 

Hestia observed her with a thoughtful expression. “I’m not surprised to hear the rehab program isn’t working as it should. To be frank, if what you’re saying is correct, it sounds like a publicity stunt. I’ve spent the past couple of years watching the Ministry take a very conservative stance on post-war rehabilitation. Many of my small-scale projects have been approved and touted by the Ministry as progressive and egalitarian. But most of my systematic proposals have been rejected. That’s why I’m running for Minister of Magic. There isn’t going to be any change under Robards’ administration.”

“What would you do differently?” said Hermione. “It sounds like the problem is deeper than the Minister.”

Hestia considered her words. “Well, you have to remember that we’re talking about a Ministry that denied Voldemort’s return for a year, and was even slower to fight back. A lot of the same people still work there,” she said. “But if we could elect, and hire, more people with my political views, it’d be much easier to get approval and funding for large-scale projects that’ll enact real change.” 

“But Shacklebolt was an Order member--”

“Kinglsey’s done his best, I think,” said Hestia. “He assumed the position when the Wizarding World was in shambles. He focused on repair. I don’t think most people understand the full extent of damage the war caused not only here but in the Muggle World. Our economy was on the brink of collapse. Half of Wizarding England was destroyed, and the war threatened to spill over to Europe. It was a mess for international relations. We spent a lot of money, and a lot of time appeasing leaders to regain their trust.”

“Is that how Robards assumed so many responsibilities?” 

Hestia nodded. “Robards has always been a respected figure in the Ministry, so he was put in charge of handling most of our internal affairs. He was the one who first suggested the MRC, to general approval. This is the first time I’m hearing that it’s been poorly handled.”

“So what can I do?” asked Hermione. “I tried to talk to Kinglsey, but he dismissed my concerns. Harry doesn’t believe me.” 

Hestia tapped her nails against the table. “I can’t get publicly involved with this, not during the election. It’d look like I’m going after my opponent instead of focusing on the issues…”

Hermione’s shoulders sagged. “I understand.”

“ _But_ ,” she said, shooting Hermione a pointed look. “I can try to help in other ways. I’ll get you the list of the judges who are in charge of the MRC, and I’ll find out who’s handling it at the DMLE. It’s not much, but--”

“It’s a lot of help,” said Hermione, filled with relief and elation. “You’re the only person who hasn’t made me feel crazy for even asking these questions.”

Hestia laughed, as if they were commiserating. “I know all about being seen as crazy, do you know how many people I’ve pissed off in recent years?” she said. “I trust your judgment, Hermione, you fought hard during the war. That’s why I asked you to lunch, it’s been illuminating.”

Hermione twirled the glass in her hand, staring at the last of the wine swirling around the bottom. “You want me to support your candidacy for Minister, as Harry did for Robards.”

“I do.” 

“Have you asked him? Or Ron?”

Hestia smiled. “Robards pounced on Harry the second he got into the Auror program. I knew that was a dead end. And I’ve always appreciated what _you_ represent.”

“Right, the token muggleborn,” said Hermione with a wry smile. 

“I won’t lie, your blood status is relevant,” said Hestia without a hint of shame. “My platform is based on the fight for blood equality. But you’re not just a muggleborn, Hermione. You’re brilliant, and you’ve been an advocate since you were a teenager.”

“Are you talking about S.P.E.W? Because frankly--”

Hestia continued, as if ticking items off a list. “You were an instrumental part of the Hogwarts repairs. You have inside knowledge of the MRC, which is critical if I’m going to effect change there. Not to mention, you graduated top of your class, and planned half of the Order’s strategy during the war. It’s the whole picture, Hermione.”

Hermione blinked, taken aback. “I don’t have the same pull as Harry does. I’m not being self-deprecating, I’m being realistic. If you’re trying to attract the same amount of attention as Robards did with Harry’s support, you’ll be disappointed.” 

“People care more about what you think than you realize, Hermione,” said Hestia. “I can sit here all day and flatter you, but you’ll see right through it. I think we have similar ideals, so I’d love to get your public support, but I’ll understand if you don’t feel comfortable doing so, and it won’t affect the help I’ve already promised you.”

“I’d have to read your entire campaign platform before agreeing to anything,” said Hermione.

Hestia smiled. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“I’d also have questions about your position on specific topics,” she continued, waiting to see if the woman’s expression would sour.

“We have a whole lunch to get through them,” she said, sounding unruffled. “But, we should actually order something.”

“You can call the waiter,” said Hermione, reaching for her purse. “I made a list.”

“Naturally,” laughed Hestia, tapping her wand against the table. “So, what are you curious about?”

Hermione ran her eyes over her notes, downed the rest of her wine, and gave Hestia the same look she used when Harry and Ron tried to manipulate her into doing their homework. “Did you know that seventy-percent of house-elves--”

_

Draco was sitting in the gazebo, half-reading the investment report his accountant had sent over, a full ashtray and a cup of lukewarm tea in front of him. 

Spending another afternoon managing his family’s estate made him daydream about doing something impulsive -- maybe he’d walk into Gringotts and sign the entirety of the Malfoy’s vaults away to wolfsbane research. He’d rid himself of neverending bank statements and piss off his parents, too, all at the same time. And he and Granger would get a good laugh out of it. 

Wolfsbane research _was_ interesting, admitted Draco, in the privacy of his own mind. Granger, predictably, owned many books on the subject. He had helped himself to them when she wasn’t at the flat, scribbling over the notes she left in the margins. Much of the research depended on potions work, which was one of the few areas he was better at. 

It made him flash back to private tutoring sessions with Snape. He’d mentioned his pipe dreams of becoming a Potions master, and his godfather said, without even opening his mouth, what they both knew -- _your father would never approve._

Draco chuckled. _Father would definitely not approve of Granger_. But Lucius couldn’t touch him or his choices, not from his cell in Azkaban, and after he ended this sham of a relationship with Daphne, he was done trying to appease his mother. 

Maybe he would search for an apprenticeship program, one that would care only about his talent, not his reputation. He’d successfully dodge the mess Douglass Greengrass was trying to drag him into, and Granger would be none the wiser; she’d be proud of him for doing something better, bigger. Something he actually wanted to do. 

As he signed another Gringotts’ receipt, aware of his mother’s approaching footsteps, the idea started to solidify in his mind. “Hello, mother,” said Draco, looking up from the parchment as she sat in the seat across from him. He waved his wand to vanish them. “Can Minzy get you a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you, dear,” said Narcissa, looking out at the gardens. “We’ve got something important to talk about.”

“Do we?” asked Draco in a sarcastic voice. “I thought you just wanted to chat with your son.”

“I don’t appreciate your tone,” she said firmly.

He sighed, an uncontrollable bout of guilt hitting him despite his efforts to shove it back down. “I apologize, mother,” said Draco, the voice in his head cackling at him. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Your father’s gotten sicker,” she said, exhaling deeply. “He sounded more urgent in his last letter. I can’t allow him to stay in that cell anymore, Draco, I simply can’t.”

“I thought you and Stewart were trying to get him out.”

“You know very well that we haven’t been successful,” said Narcissa. “I’ve tried to keep you away from it so you could focus on your relationship with Daphne.”

His scalp prickled and he combed a nervous hand through his hair. “Daphne and I--”

“Are the only thing giving me hope, right now,” she choked out, an involuntary whimper leaving her mouth. He had never seen his mother so agitated, not even as she lied to the Dark Lord’s face. 

To most people, she’d look composed, but this wasn’t the first time he had noticed her worries were overwhelming her. “Mother,” said Draco, his tone intentionally patient. “You’ve done all you could for him. He has to serve his sentence. We knew he’d never come home.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What are you implying?”

“There’s nothing we can do for him,” he said, crossing his arms. “He was sentenced by the Wizengamot.”

“Are you suggesting I abandon your father?” said Narcissa, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. “How could you say that, Draco?”

“Father wasn’t thinking about us when he made shitty decision after shitty decision,” he snapped. “Maybe he’s getting what he deserves, have you ever thought of that?”

“Draco, I don’t understand why you’re so angry at him--”

He laughed mirthlessly. “He never offered me any help. He didn’t give me any choice other than taking the Mark. He didn’t care that I was being sent on a suicide mission.”

She narrowed her eyes. “He believed in you.”

“Oh, spare me. I’m not a fool,” said Draco. “I was sixteen. It was punishment for father’s failures, which is fine, I fucking took it. I’m over it, but pardon me if I don’t hate myself enough to want a relationship with him.”

Rather than chastising him, his mother’s expression faltered. Draco watched with growing concern as she scrunched up into herself. “Mother,” he sighed. “Look at how tired you are, is this worth it?”

She sighed. “I _am_ tired, Draco,” she pleaded. “I tried to protect you as much as I could.”

“I know that.”

“But he’s your _father_. He’s your _blood_. A Malfoy’s loyalty lies with the family, we’ve taught you that. Lucius wasn’t a perfect father, but he loves you.” Draco swallowed past the frustration sticking in his throat. “What about the Christmas we spent in our French cottage? Don’t you remember him buying your first broom, and cheering you on all through your Quidditch matches? Resolving your conflicts at school, and advocating for you against Dumbledore himself? Do you remember that?”

Draco remembered all of it. But he also remembered his father teaching him how to hate before he knew what it meant. Holding him to a standard that progressively grew to impossible heights. Paralyzing fear of disappointing him, and being unable to make something as simple as a _choice_. 

When he thought of his father, Draco felt nothing more than an overwhelming mixture of frustration and unhappiness. It didn’t make him a good person, and he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

But seeing his mother’s pleading eyes twisted his guts. It made him feel smaller. And he couldn’t pretend not to care about _that_. 

“It matters,” he lied, feeling something like relief when she placed her hand over his.

Narcissa nodded. When she looked up at him, looking every bit the composed, determined woman he saw her as, Draco knew, with absolute certainty, that he’d hate whatever she’d say next. 

“I need your help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually posting this early! Progress! 
> 
> Guyyyys, I hope you like the dramione scene in this chapter because my mushy-self loved writing it. Also, happy moments are what we cling to when things get... rocky. Is it a spoiler if I say they'll need it ~~too~~ soon?
> 
> We've reached a bit over 300 kudos :) This story has over 200 comment threads and that's wild to me. I'm always mind-blown when I get ao3 notifications. It puts this huge smile on my face whenever I'm stressing over life stuff, so I wanted to thank you guys for taking the time! It's very encouraging.
> 
> Sorry for the bit of a cliffhanger? Lol I hope you enjoy it, though <3 I always love to hear your thoughts :)


	28. Not Laughter, but Poison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> props to @jeparlepasfrancais for her editing on every chapter of this story. She always comes through with awesome work, even when her life is hella busy. I appreciate you and i'm rooting for you this weekend! you'll rock it 
> 
> guys, the amazing @dopaminerejects on tumblr gifted me [ this](https://masterofinfinities.tumblr.com/post/630459742963351552/hi-i-just-want-to-say-i-love-your-story-so-much) amazing edit for the story! i really love it and appreciate it.

"Inside your head the sound of glass, a car crash sound as the trucks roll over and explode in slow motion. **_In this version you are not feeding yourself to a bad man against a black sky prickled with small lights_ ** . (...) I am still talking to you about help. I still do not have these luxuries. **I have told you where I’m coming from, so put it together**. We clutch our bellies and roll on the floor . . . When I say this, it should mean laughter, not poison." Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out, Richard Siken

* * *

Draco knew immediately that he should turn back and leave. 

He’d known it the moment his mother had told him what she needed him to do, her voice firm enough to imply she’d given it serious thought. She was convinced that it was their only option, and her tone was laced with just enough _pleading_ to weaken his defenses.

“I’ve told you from the beginning that your connection to the Greengrasses could only benefit us, Draco,” she’d said. “Months of investing in Daphne are coming to fruition. The Greengrasses can help get your father released, and if they can’t, then what was the point of all of this? I trust you to get this done.”

And Draco had nodded his head. Partly because her eyes were shining with unshed tears, but mostly because he wasn’t sure he could do much else.

But as he flooed to the Greengrass Manor, he couldn’t pretend not to notice the twinge of wrongness deep in his bones, sharp enough that he couldn’t shove it back down with everything he’d been avoiding. 

He wasn’t stupid, nor was his mother. No favors came free, particularly when you asked for them.

Draco entered Douglass’s study well aware that he was heading to a negotiation. He kept searching his brain for something to bargain with, but every time, he came up empty handed.

“I can’t say I expected your visit,” said Douglass, walking over to his desk. He pointed to the chair across from him, and Draco slid into it gracefully. “So, how have you been enjoying life as a free man?” 

Draco crossed one leg over the other, resting his hands on the arms of the chair, trying to look relaxed. Being there already made him feel belittled, the last thing he’d do was allow it to show. “It’s been freeing,” he responded. “And it gave me something to talk about at the Ministry’s latest ball. Daphne and I had fun. You and your wife would’ve enjoyed it.”

Douglass gave him an indulgent smile. “We’re more than happy to have you and Daphne represent us. Asta and I are much too old to inconvenience ourselves with that sort of function,” he chuckled. “But this one was rather interesting, wasn’t it? The first public appearance of our candidates for Minister.”

“A friend of yours is running, right? I caught a glimpse of him at your party.” 

“Robards is a business partner,” said Douglass, narrowing his eyes slightly as he surveyed Draco, who pressed his lips into an innocuous smile, making sure his expression showed nothing more than innocent curiosity. 

“And anyway, some men don’t have the privilege of being completely open with their affiliations, ” continued Douglass. “But why don’t we cut to the chase here, Draco? I’m sure you didn’t come here to chit chat with your girlfriend’s father.”

“I enjoy our conversations,” said Draco. “I hadn’t been able to exchange more than a few letters with my father, as of late. I always appreciate your wisdom.” 

“I’m glad I can be of help to you,” said Douglass. “I wasn’t afforded the privilege of having sons. I do love my daughters, but there are some things you can only rely on another man for. To pass down your duties to an heir, that’s an honor your father has.” 

_He passed down his duties, alright_ , he thought bitterly. He shoved down the stab of anger before it could show through. He wasn’t here for Lucius. 

“My father hasn’t made the best choices,” said Draco, spreading his fingers over his knee, trying to control the urge to bounce it restlessly. “To be honest with you, since I’ve started spending more time with Daphne, I’ve envied her sense of direction. She has a clear idea about how she can contribute to our society. Meanwhile, my family is still grappling with the impact of my father’s decisions, which landed him in Azkaban and hurt my mother terribly. That’s not a path I want to follow.” There was just enough truth in his words to make bitterness cut through his blatant lies, and Douglass gave him a curious look. 

“You’re not lost because of your father’s decisions, Draco,” he said. “I’ll be frank with you. You didn’t react as I expected when I informed of your release from the program--”

Draco rushed to cut in. “Any respectable pureblood man values his pride,” he paused, letting the words hang over them for a second. “But a pureblood man also knows how to value friendship.”

Douglass’ eyes flashed with something indiscernible, and Draco waited with bated breath as he seemed to come to a decision. “A pureblood man should know how to value power, too,” he said, standing up from his chair. Draco watched as he walked to the bar and grabbed two crystal tumblers, pouring a generous amount of firewhiskey into each of them. “We’ve spent the past three years biding our time, but it is upon us. You came to me tonight. That tells me you’re ready to play your role in it.”

Draco took the glass, twirling it on his hand for a second, head bent to hide how his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. When he looked up, Douglass was staring at him. 

He nodded solemnly and took another sip, his mother’s voice chanting in his mind _\- I trust you to get this done, I trust you to get this done._

“When I think of the Wizarding World’s future,” started Douglass, “I think of people like you and I in places that are rightfully ours. Our ancestors fought and protected magic for centuries, only to see it go straight to hell because of a small number of zealots. Tom Riddle had admirable goals, Draco, but he set back our cause for decades.” He shook his head. “There are more effective ways of banishing mudbloods back where they belong, and by the time we’ve taken over every inch of the Ministry, there won’t be one of them in sight. In fact, many of them will leave by their own choice.” 

Draco focused on the firewhiskey burning a path down his throat, hoping it’d serve as an excuse for the roughness in his voice. “So the rehab program? What was the point of it?”

“The MRC served a very specific purpose,” he said. “A ruse. A convenient way for people to believe that the Ministry had healed Wizarding society. And it worked. People aren’t worrying about suicide rates and all of those weak-minded bastards any more. Why would they? If you pick up _The Daily_ _Prophet_ or listen to a radio broadcast any day of the week, all you’ll hear is how everyone is better. And the rehab program? It dealt with the Death Eaters who weren’t rotting in Azkaban, and it let the public think that the Order successfully brainwashed us, just like they’ve been trying to do for decades to excuse their own inability to honor the magic that runs in their veins,” spat Douglass, his face turning crimson for a moment so short Draco could have imagined it. His scowl was instantly replaced by a brash smirk. “People trust that you’ve changed.”

“You make it sound so seamless, but--” said Draco, intentionally accentuating the crease between his brows, as if genuinely concerned, “are you sure they’re convinced? I still get looks whenever I go. I don’t think many are inclined to trust us.”

“Everything changes depending on how you sell a story,” said Douglass, taking a sip of his drink. “You can be the avatar of an evolved Wizarding society. You’ll be living proof that the hard work of initiatives like the MCR have born fruit, because you’re not only reformed, but engaged to a witch whose family has never been affiliated with Lord Voldemort, a family who wouldn’t have accepted you if you hadn’t changed. A wizard fit to represent me in the Wizengamot.”

Draco felt a wave of acid hit his stomach. He thought of Granger spending nights poring over endless magazines and reports, so certain that something was wrong, but wholly unaware of the full extent of it. 

He wanted to _leave_. The more that Douglass’s future -- his future -- took shape, the more Draco felt control slipping from his fingertips. To bow down to another lunatic, to twist himself in another web of lies for a cause he didn’t even believe in --

To look at Granger’s face and tell her he did it for a man Draco hated more than he loved?

 _But it’s not for Lucius_. He groaned inwardly, setting his tumbler back on the desk. “The thing is, sir, I don’t think I’d be very helpful,” he said, trying to sound disappointed. “The reason I came here was to ask for advice about a family issue. It seems to me like you need someone who could give you all of their focus.”

“My daughter chose you,” said Douglass, narrowing his eyes. “What could possibly be the problem?”

“I really shouldn’t bother you with it,” said Draco. “It seems so small after everything we’ve talked about.” He began to stand up.

“You know, I’ve heard that Lucius’s health isn’t the best right now,” said Douglass flippantly. Draco froze. “Your mother must be heartbroken, being away from her husband in a time like this.”

His tone sounded casual, but the words made Draco’s heart accelerate, his conscience struggling against the fear of letting his mother down. He needed to bolt before it lost. “We have a team of lawyers working to get him out,” he cleared his throat. “I came here to ask if you would be able to recommend better legal assistance, but I see now that it was rude of me to involve you in this matter. Helping secure the release of a notorious Death-Eater from Azkaban would bring you unnecessary attention.”

Douglass let out a low chuckle. “You’re not wrong,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “But not even Chief Warlock Spitzer could plead your father’s case in front of the Wizengamot. What you need is access to a sympathetic ear, and Draco, we can help you get that access.”

_I trust you to get this done, I trust you to get this done--_

“I can’t ask--”

_I trust you--_

“I’m offering,” he declared. 

Draco sat back down and looked away in a feigned show of humility, but he couldn’t stand to see Douglass look at him like a fish that had finally taken the bait.

“Your parents are your family, and you’re looking out for them,” continued Douglass. “I go to great lengths for _my_ family too, so we can solve your problem.”

 _What am I doing, what I am doing_. _Fuck_ , _what the fuck_. “I wouldn’t want to bring you any more problems, sir,” he tried, wishing he’d trusted his instincts, wishing he hadn’t become so good at dismissing the voice shouting for him to run. 

But Douglass’s eyes were already gleaming. “Consider it done,” he insisted. “Of course, if you’re going to be part of our family, I need to make sure that my daughter doesn’t feel neglected.” He opened a desk drawer, taking out a small box. He slid it towards Draco. “No spell would work better than this.” 

Draco took the box and turned it over in his hands. The blue velvet felt smooth against his palms, but his mind was buzzing with static, his mother’s voice fading in and out like a radio announcer. _I trust you to get this done, Draco, I need you to get this done. I need you to do this for the family, Draco, don’t you love your family?_ “I’m sure she’ll love it.”

“Of course she will,” chuckled Douglass. “This ring belonged to her grandmother, they were very close. And while Daphne, Asta, and Astoria worry about the more frivolous aspect of this union, the two of us will focus on what really matters.” He gave him a flat smile. “We’ve got a lot to accomplish until February.”

Draco swallowed past the lump in his throat, then forced out a laugh. “Everyone seems to be fretting about the election.” 

“There's no reason to fret,” he said coolly. “After you’re officially a part of this family, you’ll be able to represent us in the Wizengamot. We’ve already got a fair amount of young people in Ministry departments, but that doesn’t mean we don’t need more. Your friend Theodore could be a great addition. ”

Draco thought back to his first conversation with Daphne. 

He knew something like this would come up, eventually. He knew that their courtship had never been more than a business transaction. He had wondered why Douglass hadn’t been as upfront before, but now, the answer was clear. 

He’d been waiting for the opportunity to back him into a corner, and Draco had handed it to him on a silver platter. 

“I don’t think Theo is interested in politics.”

“This isn’t about politics. It’s about finally purging the Wizarding World of the dirt that’s been soiling it for centuries,” said Douglass, voice full with an intensity that was almost frighting. The attentive, calculating look in his eyes transformed into a glint of daydream, as if he was lost in the fantasy he’d hand stitched. “After the election, we’ll have purebloods ruling every aspect of the Ministry. We don’t need another bloodbath, Draco. We’re going to make it impossible for the mudbloods to stay, under force of law. _Our_ law. I trust you to convince your friend Theodore of that. Consider it your first task.”

Draco arched a brow. “For a Safer Wizarding World? _”_

Douglass smiled. “Look at that, you even support the same candidate Harry Potter does. Why would people ever doubt you?”

_

Draco walked down the long hallway of the second floor of the Greengrass Manor. He felt a strange prickling on his skin, a tingle of paranoia, making him feel watched despite being completely alone. 

In Douglass’s study, it had taken every bit of his concentration to maintain any semblance of insouciance. He had been barely conscious of this feeling twisting inside of him, utterly focused on making sure nothing on his face gave him away. Now, every bit of dread was catching up to him. 

He should leave, but something else was more urgent. The ring box inside of his pocket felt like a boulder weighing him down, and he suppressed the impulse to dig it out and hurl it out of the nearest window. 

When he turned a corner, a hand shot out of a nearby doorway and dragged him into the room. 

“What are you doing here?” demanded Daphne, slamming the door shut before turning to face him. She was wearing a green satin chemise that ended above her ankles, and her dark hair fell in loose waves down her back. Draco had never seen her bare faced before. 

It made her look so much younger.

The pressure in his chest deflated, and his shoulders sagged. He scanned her room,unable to pinpoint what he was searching for -- something to yell at, perhaps, or someone to tell him that he hadn’t made the worst decision of his life. 

“I was talking to your father,” said Draco, brushing past her. He walked to the large bay window on the opposite side of the room, pretending not to notice her glare burning into him. He cracked it open a fraction, inhaling the cool air. 

“Are you mad?” asked Daphne, sitting on the bench beneath the windowsill. He gave a dry laugh and looked out the window, his hand tugging the ring box out of his pocket. “Oh, you _are_ mad,” she repeated in a hollow voice. 

“I need something from your father,” he said softly. Daphne looked at him expectantly. “So I came to talk to him.” 

“And you used me as a bargaining chip?” There wasn’t any surprise in her words. “My hand in marriage for whatever it is that you want?”

Draco exhaled. Her eyes looked much larger, now that they weren’t hidden behind carefully-applied layers of makeup. They looked darker too, gleaming with stubborn tears. “I told you we didn’t have the luxury of having good fathers.”

Daphne chuckled. “I knew why they were pressuring me into this courtship,” she sighed. “I don’t know why this is making me so upset.”

 _Because you still expected better_ , he thought.

Could he live with himself if he did the same to Daphne, as was done to him? To manipulate her into doing this? 

He’d go home, after this, and beg for Granger’s forgiveness, for her understanding. But would he deserve it, if there was nothing to discern him from the people who wanted to put him in power? 

“I’m going to be honest with you,” said Draco, a muscle in his jaw clenching. He wrapped his fingers around the box. “I need your father’s help, and when he made it clear this was what I needed to do to make it happen, you were the last person that crossed my mind.”

She looked out the window. “Great.” 

“In the study with him, I thought about my mother. I owe her, and if this would make her happy, then fine,” he choked out. “Then I hated her for asking me in the first place. But I still played along with your father, because I had to, right? Family first, blood first, as pure as it fucking is--”

“Draco--”

“No,” he said through gritted teeth. “There’s no way of making this sound less like bullshit. Is this ever going to stop? Are we ever going to stop this?”

“What do you need from my father?”

“It doesn’t fucking matter,” he exhaled. 

“Draco, don’t be daft,” said Daphne, narrowing her eyes. “What do you need from my father?”

He didn’t want to tell her. Half because he couldn’t stand the idea of her pitying him, half because he’d lose this determination beginning to burn inside of him. 

Draco felt close, _so_ close to something, as if his hand was reaching out, ready to grab what he needed to make it all fit into place. 

But Daphne’s eyes were firm. His chest was tightening painfully, but gusts of wind were sweeping into the room, making it possible to breathe without gasping. It barely grounded him, but it was enough -- just enough to make it feel less like flying straight into the eye of a hurricane. 

“Lucius is dying in a fucking Azkaban cell,” he finally ground out. “My mother wants him out.”

“My father--”

“Don’t start your spiel about your father not having the power to do it, Daphne, not even you can be that blind. He didn’t even hesitate before telling me he’d get it done. Right before he went on a rant about chuckling Muggleborns out of the Wizarding World. He made it clear that he and Robards are planning to stage a bloody coup.”

“And he needs you in that fucking Wizengamot chair, doesn’t he?” She shook her head. “You know what’s funny? If he had _asked_ me to represent him there, I would’ve done it,” she laughed. “Draco, I wouldn’t have hesitated before helping him pass his bigoted laws. It’s our duty, isn’t it? To get rid of the mudbloods and do well by our fathers? I would’ve _helped_ , and I don’t even believe in any of it.” 

Draco watched a slew of emotions cross over her face. “But witches are just props to sit beside powerful men. He’s so blind that he’s counting on _you_ , of all people. He can’t even see you’ve jumped out of this boat a long time ago.” 

“I’m not going forward with this, Daphne.” 

She laughed. “Of course you aren’t. But then again, maybe you shouldn’t have taken this fucking box in the first place,” she said, snatching it from his fingers. There was a fire in her eyes that hadn’t been there before, a quiet fury that made the air around them quiver. “Too little, too late.” 

“Fuck,” whispered Draco. “I don’t think the smartest way to go about this would be to throw it back in his face.”

“It isn’t,” she grunted. “He won’t take no for an answer. But I’m not marrying you, Draco. My father sold me out without having the decency of asking me first, he’d have to _Imperio_ me before binding me into a loveless wedding vow,” she stood up, opening the box and taking the ring out before setting it down the couch. She didn’t look at him as she slid the ring down her finger, holding it up against the moonlight. For a second, the band hung loose, but it quickly snapped tight, magically bound to fit. It was rose gold, pavé diamonds sparkling around the edge of the ring. In the center, two butterflies curled around a single sparkling diamond, which gleamed brightly. Unlike much of what the Greengrasses did, this ring was made to be seen. 

She looked at him. “But I’m not going to be a fool about this. _We_ are not going to be fools about this. When we end this, I’ll have my freedom.”

Draco felt sick to his stomach, like he was at sea, watching his wants and needs slowly slip over the horizon. Every gust of wind sent him further away from shore, and it wouldn’t be long until his future was completely out of his line of sight.

Daphne looked enthralled by the ring, but there was an almost eerie quality to her, to the air that spun like a vortex around their bodies. 

And then, like a sliver of light cutting through darkness, he was struck by realization. It had been right under his nose this entire time, walking barefoot around his flat, spouting one idealistic statement after another. He had a way out of this, didn’t he? 

“Your father told me some things,” he said finally. Daphne tore her gaze away from the ring. “Granger’s been trying to expose all the dirt on the MRC for a while now. I wonder what she could accomplish, if she knew the things that we knew.”

“What are you saying?”

“You’ve been trying for months to get your bloody freedom, Daphne. If it’d worked, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now,” he shrugged. “Maybe it’s time we just took it.” 

“And you think Hermione can help with that?”

Draco felt so constantly stuck, imprisoned in a system that didn’t give any room to choose. If he bowed his head now, then he’d be constantly pulled back into this vicious cycle.

He’d thought Granger reckless, but something told Draco there was no way out of this without blowing the door off of its bloody hinges.

“She’s going to do it either way, Daphne,” he muttered, feeling more sure of it than anything else. “I think we can help her.”

_

Hermione yawned, pressing her index fingers to the corners of her eyes to banish her sleep-induced haze. Her sock-clad feet shuffled across the floor and into the kitchen. As she set the water to boil, she leaned against the counter-top and surveyed her surroundings. It had been a cold night, but the morning felt warmer. Crookshanks was stretched out underneath the window, basking in the golden sunlight pouring into the room. 

Both of them had easily become comfortable in the flat, and Hermione hadn’t thought about looking for a place of her own. She told herself that she’d been too busy, too preoccupied with everything else happening around her. It was an comfortable idea, but when she allowed the thought to take up space in her mind, Hermione realized she felt at home.

The more time she spent there, the less her reasons to leave seemed to hold weight. 

She sighed and turned back to the stove, pouring the boiling water into a mug of tea. Her conversation with Hestia had constantly been on her mind. 

Hestia was a smooth talker, but her every word was thread with intention. Hermione didn’t necessarily question her ethics, but she would be foolish not to notice that everyone around her transformed into twisted versions of themselves the closer they got to power. Harry was the bitterest pill to swallow, but there was Shacklebolt, too. 

Hermione felt passionately about dismantling the most vile, corrupt aspects of the Wizarding World, but there was something that nagged at her about willingly stepping into politics. The MRC had been her chance to contribute without losing herself in the Ministry’s shoddy games of manipulation, but no matter her efforts, she seemed to inevitably be dragged into them. 

_Merlin_ , she missed the simplicity of Hogwarts. Losing herself in books, and learning, and knowing irrevocably that through knowledge she could change the world, too. She didn’t regret leaving after the repairs were finished, but she couldn’t deny that she hadn’t been able to replicate this feeling of purpose anywhere else. 

“Well, too late for that, Hermione,” she muttered under her breath, startled by the sound of an owl pecking at the living room’s window. In her haste, hot water spilled onto her fingers, and she hissed, grabbing her wand to mutter a quick healing spell before stomping towards the creature. “Merlin, will you wait?” 

She ignored the throbbing in her palm and cracked open the window, reaching for the letter. The owl didn’t wait for a treat before flying away with a nervous flutter of its wings, and Hermione huffed, closing the window before dropping into the couch. The burning sensation was slowly fading away, but she was still careful, slowly easing open the envelope’s seal.

Hermione’s first instinct was to laugh -- incredulously, maybe even with a touch of lunacy. But she couldn’t make a sound, reading the letter a second, then a third time.

_Dear Hermione Jean Granger,_

_We are elated to inform you of the official closure of the Mental Rehabilitation Center._

_The MRC was a Ministry-sanctioned effort to provide mental health care for the wizards and witches of Britain. In the past couple of years, we have had enormous success in fulfilling our mission: not only helping our citizens acquire the proper resources to resolve war-related trauma, but also eradicating the need for our assistance._

_Just this year, we have released more than 95% of our trauma patients, including all participants of our rehabilitation program for former Death Eaters._

_We have improved the well-being of the general population, and demolished the core bias of individuals who had been raised to believe in Dark Magic. We have our dedicated employees to thank for the accomplishment of our goal._

_The official announcement will be published in_ The Daily Prophet _this Tuesday. At that time, we will also release the data supporting this Wizengamot-approved decision. Candidate for Minister of Magic, Gawain Robards, will be giving a live interview on the Wireless Radio broadcast in the coming week to further discuss our accomplishments._

_We would much appreciate your statement of support. Please direct your letter to Bart Hughman, Director of the Criminal Mind Healing Office, at the following address:_

_Second Level of the Ministry of Magic,_

_Department of Magical Law Enforcement,_

_Criminal Mind Healing Office,_

_Regards,_

_Bart Hughman_

_Director of the CMHO_

Hermione stood up from the couch, balling the parchment into her fist before she fully realized she was doing it. She cursed at herself, smoothing the rippled letter and setting it on the coffee table, far away from her. 

Her mind raced. Suddenly, it made sense -- ordering Cartwell to release trauma patients, constantly cutting the MRC’s finances, releasing Draco and Pansy out of nowhere, all without bothering to pretend there were plausible grounds behind each decision. They were simply biding their time. 

And Hughman, that _bastard_. He had passionately defended the Center when she’d asked; she had questioned his choices, but not his commitment to it. _And for a made up division in the DMLE?_

Hermione felt the blood rush to her face and her eyes beginning to sting. She was watching a movie scene unwind before her -- no matter how much she yelled at the characters, she was powerless to stop the plot being set in motion. 

“For a Safer Wizarding World,” she muttered to herself. Hermione _knew_ , with unshakable certainty, that Robards would twist this decision to benefit his campaign. People were suddenly healed, Death-Eaters were suddenly muggle-loving egalitarians, all thanks to the man at the podium. Who wouldn’t vote for him?

 _I have to tell Harry about this_ , decided Hermione. She didn’t care if she didn’t have solid proof. She couldn’t bring herself to believe that they had damaged their relationship so severely that he would choose this man over her. 

There was a storm of feelings surging inside of her -- fear and determination and blood red fury. But as her heart accelerated inside of her chest, she knew that she couldn’t do this alone. 

When she heard the sound of the Floo and the familiar thud of Draco’s boots hitting the wooden floor, Hermione knew she had to make _him_ see this, too. 

When she turned to greet him, her eyes took in the utter look of despair on his face. 

All of her emotions dissipated, except one. 

“What happened?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh dude, I feel like this is the chapter we've been working towards for a long time now, plot-wise. The land is set, and now we get to see how every character will deal with it! can't wait to hear your thoughts/theories <3
> 
> thank you for all the comments/kudos and everyone who reached out on tumblr as well; I appreciate you so much!


	29. Carooming Underneath the Radar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was edited by the always amazing @jeparlepasfrancais. I'm always grateful.

**“I love you sideways daily. Sideways because I have to beam my love in all directions,** hoping it bounces off something and eventually finds you. _You and all the other secret agents carooming underneath the radar, sending your documents back to Mission Control—which is me, I guess, because I have a permanent address._ (...) You said if people wanted to change the world, they would. You said most people like it this way. Too bad for them, I say. **I want something else**.” - The Long and the Short of It, Richard Siken

* * *

“We need to talk.”

Hermione’s face twitched into a frown. She tucked a curl behind her ear before smiling weakly. “Haven’t you heard you should never start a conversation like that?” she said, watching Draco approach her.

He lowered himself into a chair at the wooden coffee table and stretched his legs out. “Will you sit?” 

“Are you being dramatic, or did something happen?” she asked, a wave of stubborness making her want to put her hands on her hips and stay where she stood. 

But Draco didn’t seem to be gearing himself up for a fight. There was no aggravating blankness behind his eyes, nor sneer indicating he was going to say something he didn’t actually mean. 

He only looked tired. 

So she dragged herself to the couch and sat directly in front of him. “Well?” 

His mouth opened, then closed, and Hermione’s heart rose and fell each time it seemed like he’d finally speak, only for him to falter at the last second. 

She pressed her palms into the soft couch cushions, her fingers worrying the tiny portion of fabric she could get a hold of. 

“Do you remember when I told you I wasn’t going to lie to you?” 

“I do.”

“Well,” said Draco, eyes darting to a spot behind her head. He licked his lips nervously, then straightened his shoulders, finally meeting her gaze. “I didn’t mean to. But I lied about that.” 

_

One of Hermione’s feet repeatedly tapped against the wooden floors, rhythmic as a ticking bomb. 

She felt Draco’s eyes on her, but her own were glued to a tiny spot on one of the coffee table’s legs, where the paint was beginning to peel off at the bottom, the rich brown giving way to the dreary beige lying beneath. _I thought this was luxury Italian furniture_ , she thought, _so why is it flaking already?_ She wanted to scratch at the wood until it became one color -- uniform, cohesive, orderly. If uglier.

Draco cleared his throat. “Hermione, love--”

She snapped her head towards him, her eyes set stone cold with disappointment. It made him gulp. “Don’t ‘ _love’_ me right now,” she said. “Give me a bloody minute to think.”

She stood up and walked towards the window, considered apparating away, then turned around and leaned against the wall. She let herself get a proper look at him. She hadn’t, before.

Everything seemed up in flames. There was too much to unpack and make sense of. Her mind felt numb, overloaded by everything he’d said to her. But he had spoken, voice increasingly urgent as he unraveled the web he’d created -- 

He’d explained that he’d agreed to date Daphne not out of a sense of friendship, but because his mother would’ve kept pressuring him, if he hadn’t. 

He’d described Douglass Greengrass’s speeches, feeling something _off_ , that very first night, and still forcing himself to let it go. 

Then he had told Hermione about his father’s illness, _offhandedly_ , but she couldn’t stop thinking about it even as he went on about seeing Robards at Douglass’s party, and the real reason behind his release from the program. 

And then he had told her about last night -- about asking the man for help on his mother’s behalf, not knowing but with a good enough guess of what he’d have to give in exchange. 

About Douglass not leaving him any room to doubt his plans. 

She hadn’t looked at Draco once, while he said it all.

“Why now?” asked Hermione, folding her arms in front of her chest. “You could’ve kept lying about it, so why now?” 

“You’d find out eventually, Granger.”

“I’m not so sure I would have,” she scoffed. “I’ve been _living_ _with you_ and I hadn’t realized, so maybe I’m just bloody blind when it comes to you.”

Draco stood up, but when he took a step towards her, she raised a hand to stop him. “Hermione,” he started. “It’s not your fault for trusting me. I wanted you to trust--” He shook his head. “I _need_ you to trust me.”

“How can you say that? You had plenty of opportunities to tell me. I can understand you feeling like you couldn’t, at the beginning--” Her breath stuttered, but her voice gained strength. “But later on? I’m ignoring every bit of common sense telling me to _leave_ , because I keep thinking that you must’ve _one_ good reason for lying to me. But you still haven’t given me one.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but the words didn’t seem to come out. He pressed his hands to the back of his neck, and Hermione waited, feeling like fingers were wrapped tightly around her heart. “Draco,” she choked out. “I’m not going to beg you to be honest with me.”

“I don’t want you to,” he said firmly. “Fuck, of course I don’t.”

“Then why can’t you do it on your own?”

“Because it’s not that fucking easy,” he snapped, running a hand down his face and releasing a loud groan of frustration. “Granger, I--”

Hermione’s fingers dug into her forearm, and her eyes stung, but she waited. It was all tangled -- her affection for him, the sharpness of her disappointment, an urge to _just go_ that surged and faded like waves crashing into the shore.

But she waited, and Draco --

She was so angry with him that she could scream, but she still noticed how he was struggling. It made her ache for him. 

Her arms fell to her sides, and her head hit the wall behind her. Hermione blinked at the ceiling, counting each breath she took. _Can I trust him, can I trust him, can I--_

“Granger,” he whispered, and her eyes traveled towards him. He was standing just a few inches away from her now, having moved so silently she hadn’t heard, and his arms were crossed behind his back. And again, Draco struggled. “The reason I didn’t tell you--”

“Yeah?”

He sniffed. And struggled. “It was because I didn’t want you to leave,” he began, and Hermione frowned. “I mean, partly. And because I knew I was wrong, everything I did-- I knew that it was wrong, but I didn’t--” he paused, looking away from her, as if searching for guidance. “I didn’t know how to explain to myself why I kept falling back to this. My mother could say a word and I’d do anything to make her feel better. But it’s not all her fault, because I could tell her _no_. I just didn’t feel like I could--” He gave a bitter, humorless laugh. “And I kept telling Daphne that I was done with it, and something else would come up, and I would get pulled underwater again. I am, still. I’m not making sense, am I?”

Hermione didn’t say anything, but her eyes were on him -- intent, expectant. 

Draco sighed. “Sometimes I can’t get rid of this feeling that I’m stuck. It feels like I’ve been cursed to keep my feet rooted to the fucking ground, forever. And then I’d come to you, and you’d give me this look --” He licked his lips. “Granger, you’re the only person who’s ever looked at me like I could get something right, for once. It’s the best thing you’ve given me,” he muttered. “But I fucked everything else up. I was afraid --” His jaw clenched, and Hermione followed the path his throat made as he swallowed.

“I never wanted you to hide from me, Draco.”

“Merlin, Hermione, of course you didn’t. I’m sorry it took me this long. I just couldn’t--” he whispered, his chest heaving. “But I can’t-- I want so badly for you to forgive me, but how much better would I be than everyone else if I asked?” He shook his head, his voice sounding urgent. “I want all of you, but I never want to take anything from you, Hermione. I swear to Salazar, that’s my truth.”

Hermione’s heart leapt, and her eyes stung more sharply. “Are you sorry?” she asked, voice just above a whisper. She didn’t know if it’d make much difference, but she asked, anyway. 

His face relaxed, and he said, voice loud and firm, “No one in the world has been more sorry than me.”

She searched his eyes for something, _anything_ that betrayed his words. She waited for the acute feeling of intuition to twist her guts. But there was nothing but a hollow ache cutting through her anger. Hermione knew he wasn’t lying to her, as much as she knew Draco was haunted by ghosts of his own, ones that she’d never be able to touch, just like he’d never be able to touch some of hers.

But her mind was still in overdrive. She wanted to tell him she saw him -- all of him, even the parts she didn’t particularly like. But she couldn’t be sure that she wouldn’t further wound them both. 

“Don’t come after me,” she said firmly, brushing past him and rushing up the stairs. She stopped at the top of the staircase, turning to look at him for a second. Draco’s hand gripped at his hair, but he didn’t move. 

She waited.

But he didn’t go after her. 

_

Draco hurled the butt of his cigarette out of the window before pulling another one out of the pack. He didn’t usually smoke at the flat, too aware of how much it bothered Granger, but well, she had disappeared into the bedroom several hours ago, and he could hold only a certain amount of tension inside his body without snapping. 

He longed to grab a broom and feel the rush of the wind slapping against his face, but he didn’t want Granger to think he’d left her. _She could’ve apparated to bloody America by now_ , a voice piped up, filled to the brim with insecurity. But he couldn’t make himself walk upstairs to check, not when she had asked him not to. So he let the nicotine relax his body.

When he heard the sound of her small feet padding down the stairs, he threw his third cigarette out, placing the pack back inside his pocket before pulling away from the window. He tried not to feel too relieved about her return, but a stubborn bubble of hope betrayed his efforts.

Granger patted the stop beside her on the couch, and Draco crossed the room so fast that blood rushed in his ears. He made himself slow down before sitting, ensuring there was a respectable amount of space between their bodies. 

He was hit by the fresh scent of her lavender shampoo, and he catalogued the way her curls sat in an unruly knot on top of her head. She had taken the time to dry her hair, but there were still stray drops of water clinging to the curve of her neck and on her exposed shoulders. 

She rested her cheek against the back of the couch, and he mirrored her, wanting so badly to drag his body closer -- until the tips of their noses touched, until he could pull her into a kiss and make her understand what he’d been so bad at explaining with words. 

“I wanted to make sure that I believed you, I think. Because I wouldn’t be able to look at you, in the long run, if I ignored my intuition because of my feelings.” She cleared her throat. “I laid in bed for what felt like years. I kept remembering our conversations there. And then I went to shower, and I remembered you holding me in the tub and I asked myself if you’d lie to hurt me.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“I know you wouldn’t do it to hurt me, Draco. You’re my best friend, and you’ve never asked anything from me other than what I was willing to give you,” she whispered. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not mad at you. Some of the things you hid are so much bigger than us.”

“You should be mad at me,” he stated, feeling emotion sticking to his throat. 

“I’m going to be mad at you for a while,” she said. “We’re different people, and I understand it’s harder for you to open up to me than the other way around, especially about your family. But this entire bloody mess with Robards and Douglass Greengrass? If you hide _anything_ from me about that--” She shook her head in warning. “That’s my line, Draco. That’s when I say it’s enough.”

He swallowed. “Alright.”

“But I think I understand how it feels to be stuck,” muttered Hermione. “And I think that I would do a lot of things to make my parents happy. You’re loyal to a fault, Draco, but you told me I can’t set myself on fire to keep other people warm. And you can’t, either.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. But I need to know, right now, if you’re keeping anything else important from me,” she said in a serious voice. The threat behind her words made the hairs on his arm stand up. Her eyes narrowed slightly, and there was no part of him that didn’t feel the weight of her gaze. “And you should think very hard about your answer.” 

Draco swallowed, but he didn’t let his gaze stray. Instead, he moved a bit closer to her. “I’m not keeping anything else from you, Hermione,” he said. “This is it.” 

She didn’t say anything for a long beat, then she nodded. “Alright.” 

They sat like that, trading glances. There was something setting deeper underneath Draco’s skin, a rawness that followed being so exposed, but a certainty that wasn’t there before -- he’d always known there was no coming back from Granger, but it hadn’t felt tangible until that moment. There was something strangely calming about the realization that he’d be with this person for life. That she’d seen the best of him, and the worst of him, and she’d stayed.

It made everything else feel so small, under the stark hugeness of what they had. 

“I used to think you were the first choice I made, Granger,” he murmured. “But you’re not. I made a lot of choices before you, no matter who I blame for them. And I made a lot of choices after. Most of them were bad ones,” he said. “You’re the good one.” 

Tears welled up in her eyes. “I shouldn't be. Not the only good one, at least. You can’t keep regretting everything you do, Draco. You have to find a way to make peace with yourself. I can’t be your redemption,” she whispered, and his heart throbbed. “You sat with me on a dirty storage floor when you hated me, and you stood by me every single day since. I’m not the person you need to make amends with.” 

He scooted closer and bent his head, touching her forehead with his lips. She shivered. “I’m going to do that. I’m not going anywhere but up, Hermione,” he said. “But you’ll still be my best choice.” 

She leaned back just enough to meet his gaze, her eyes suddenly twinkling. “You’re making promises to a lot of witches, these days. Will I have to duel Daphne? I actually like her.” 

He scowled, and her mouth twitched.“Too soon?”

Granger chuckled, but her words prodded at his guilt. He didn’t think it’d disappear. “I’ll tell Douglass that I can’t follow through with this,” he said firmly, “and I’ll deal with my mother. It’s fucking time, anyway.”

She smiled. “Yeah, you’re not going to do that.”

“Hermione, I shouldn’t have accepted in the first place.”

“You shouldn’t have,” she agreed. 

“I don’t want to keep making you uncomfortable,” said Draco. “It’s fucking up with my newfound moral compass.”

“You can’t back out now,” said Hermione, leaving the couch. Unconsciously, he got up and followed her into the kitchen. “It’ll be stupid to, at this point,” she continued “You have the perfect in with Douglass and Robards. You’ll get the information we need straight from the source.” 

“I’m more concerned about our relationship,” said Draco, frowning as he watched her transfigure a pan into a huge chalkboard. “I don’t want to put this on you any more than I already have.” 

“This is bigger than you and I,” she said, hunting through the drawers before pulling out a spatula. She tapped it, and it became a pack of chalk. 

He gave her a pointed look. “I really don’t think that it is.” 

“I think we need to get your priorities straight,” she shot back, rolling the chalkboard into the dining area. Draco followed her. “Now, sit. You need to tell me everything again.”

He let out a weary sigh, but pulled out a chair and sat. Granger shook a piece of chalk into her hands and wrote Douglass’ name on the left upper corner of the board, then Robards’ name on the opposite side. When she turned to face him, she hesitated. “Maybe we should do this another time.”

“Why?” 

“Because you look awful,” said Granger with a look of concern. “Did you get any sleep last night, at all?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m fine, Granger. Let’s do this.”

“Don't you want to talk about your father, maybe?”

“I want to talk about _you._ ”

“Draco--”

“Granger, I will tell you about him. But I still don't know how I feel, and I have an inkling this will be one of the last times I’ll be able to ignore it,” he sighed. “But I _will_ tell you. Later.”

That seemed to appease Granger only for a short second. “Have you at least eaten something?”

“I smoked. It fills me up.” 

“I must’ve missed the class where they taught us nicotine is a food group,” she snapped. 

“Hermione,” he sighed. “Let’s do this, all right? Then I’ll sleep for ten hours and feast on a fucking centaur, if it makes you happy. But I want to do this first.”

She placed her hands on her hips, her eyes travelling over his face and down his body with a stubborn look on her face. He straightened his posture, tension setting between his shoulder blades as he readied himself for an argument. But the extent of his fatigue seemed to sink in, because she didn’t hold his gaze for long before exhaling a placating breath. “You didn’t need to get so graphic,” she grunted, before turning towards the board. “So, what does Douglass do?”

“Besides plotting his little coup d'état?”

“I don’t know if it can be considered a coup,” said Granger. “I mean, he’s planning to do it by the letter of the law. It’s actually very intelligent. I wonder if he studied Hitler.” 

He sighed. “Care to elaborate?”

“Adolf Hitler was the leader of Nazi Germany, not very long ago. He preyed on the desperation and insecurity of the German people shortly after they lost a war, and promised them greatness. He said that all they had to do was rid themselves of undesirables, mostly Jews.” She arched a brow, taking in Draco’s frown. “He rose to power democratically, but then dramatically suppressed his opposition. Then he hunted down every single person that he had called an undesirable, imprisoned them in camps, and mass murdered them.”

Draco shuddered. “Douglass isn’t that bad. He wants to get rid of muggleborns, sure, but he’s adamant he doesn’t want blood spilled. He thought the Dark Lord set us back.”

She scoffed. “Yeah, sure. Does he think we’ll just leave because he passes what, an anti-muggle immigration law? A muggleborn ban? Egomaniacs don’t like seeing people fight back,” she said. “I don’t think it’ll take much for him to drop the anti-violence motto. Not if he’s that set on cleansing the Wizarding World.”

Draco crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in the chair, watching Granger write “blood supremacist laws” under Douglass’s name. “At least we saw the Dark Lord coming,” he said. “Most people don’t think twice about the Greengrasses.”

“That’s the scariest thing about it all.” Her voice sounded far away. “His goals are exactly the same as Voldemort’s. Maybe he’ll be subtler about it, but he’s planning to banish Muggleborns all the same. And the Daily Prophet hasn’t said a word about him, or his cronies. They’re too busy making up lies about our love lives. So why would people be concerned?” 

“Granger, about the MRC--” 

Granger turned to face him, her fingers pressing against her temple. “I really believed in it,” she muttered. 

He stood up and wrapped his arms around her waist. She didn’t protest, so he pulled her body flush against his. She relaxed against him, like she was trusting him to keep her steady. “I know you did,” he whispered, pressing a kiss below her ear. 

“We don’t ever catch a break,” she whispered, her forehead falling against his shoulder. “I just want to feel good for a while, Draco. I just want to not think.”

He released a deep breath before sliding his lips against her cheek, feeling Granger tremble against him. “I can help with that,” he murmured. One hand slid up her body, and his fingers grazed the side of her breast before he reached her chin.

Her eyes were already shadowed with lust, like they’d flipped a switch that compressed the air around them. “I’m so mad at you,” she whispered against his mouth. She gripped at his shoulders, her fingers sliding towards the nape of his neck, tugging softly at the tips of his hair. 

“You can hurt me a little,” he joked.

Granger chuckled. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“You have very sharp nails.” He pressed open mouth kisses down the column of her throat and Granger inclined her neck to give him more access. Draco sucked the skin into his mouth, nudging his thigh between her legs. 

She let out a raspy moan as she grounded herself against his thigh. He placed his hand on the exposed skin of her waist, and he caressed it slowly, easing his palm up her torso. He cupped her breast in his hand, thumb slowly tracing around her nipple. Granger was trembling quietly against him, low gasps leaving her mouth. 

Draco swallowed her whimper with his lips. 

He knew how she liked to be touched. He’d been taught all of her signs: the audible ones, when she rasped out a low command of _here_ and _there_ , or when the sounds leaving her mouth got louder, increasing in urgency. 

But he was well-versed in all of the signs she couldn’t verbalize, too -- the way her thighs tightened around his when he nibbled the soft spot behind her ear, the way her breath shortened when he switched from one breast to the other. How she shivered when he sucked into her neck, on her collarbone, on her hips, how her nails dug into his back when he teased her with his fingers. 

And maybe there was something rougher about the way they moved, their touches more intense. 

But nothing about it hurt. 

They weren’t made like that. 

He turned them, and the small of her back pressed against the dinner table. Granger tore her lips away from his long enough to slide on top of it, her legs crossing behind him as she yanked his body towards hers. Her hands tugged the fabric of his shirt over his head, and he dropped her pajama pants into the floor, his slacks following in a fraction of a second. 

Granger’s back arched beautifully when his hand dropped between her thighs. “You’re magnificent when you’re all business, you know?” he whispered, watching her grind against him. “You in front of a chalkboard? Might be my favorite sight in the world.” 

Granger chuckled, but the sound morphed into a hiss of pleasure the second his finger slid inside of her. “That’s what gets you going?” 

“Everything about you gets me going,” he whispered, slipping a second one inside, his thumb circling her clit. “But you in charge? How do you think I got through all those meetings?”

Her head snapped towards him, a crease between her brows. _I can’t have that_ , thought Draco, increasing the speed of his movements. Granger closed her eyes, bracing her arms on the table behind her, the words leaving her mouth in a breathless, raspy whisper. “I thought it was my choice in discussion topics.”

“That too,” he conceded, any coherent thought beginning to blur out of his mind. “Brains and Beauty? The perfect package.” 

“You asked for a dull witch,” she grunted. One of her hands closed over him, and she muttered a contraception charm right before the tip of his cock rubbed against her. 

“Got you instead,” he said, barely audible. “Not complaining,” he breathed out, slowly pushing his way inside of her. 

“Smooth tosser,” gasped Granger, as she fit perfectly around him. 

Then they didn’t say anything else. At all. 

_

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“I trust them,” shrugged Draco. Granger’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“He’s Daphne’s father,” she stated, in that tone of hers that made it clear Draco was missing the point. 

“She’s not exactly fond of him right now.”

She shot him a skeptical look. “She’s angry enough to stab him in the back?” Draco shrugged again. “You need to take this seriously.”

He sighed, rolling his neck from side to side in an effort to relieve some of the tension still present in his body. He had a good night of sleep, but Granger had woken up remembering that she was mad at him. 

It was subtle, but he noticed how she didn’t actively seek to be physically close to him. She was quicker to snap, too. It reminded him of days when they didn’t have to say anything to get on each other’s nerves, and an ill-formulated sentence set off arguments that made him want to burst out of his own skin in irritation. 

He was determined not to fall back in that pattern. 

“Granger, on a scale of one to ten, my trust in Daphne is a low six,” he said calmly. “That’s good enough for me. She might change her mind, but I’m positive she wouldn’t sell us out.”

“What’s Theo score?”

Draco smirked. “A solid eight.” 

“The audacity,” said Theo, stepping out of the fireplace and into the flat’s living room. He waved his arms with a flourish, like a magician appearing on his stage. “My arse is a ten. It’s simply perfect, and I won’t be hearing otherwise.”

Granger turned to him with an unimpressed expression. “Sit down, Theodore.” 

Theo looked from her to Draco before throwing himself on the couch, clearly displeased by the cold reception to his antics. He stretched his arms over the back of the couch and lolled his head towards Draco. “Tough audience today,” he complained. “What’s this about?” 

“Let’s wait for Daphne,” said Draco. 

“Alright, mate. How about a tour?”

“You’ve been here before.”

“Not when it was like this, I haven’t,” said Theo. He turned to Granger, who was already facing the chalkboard, her body shielding words she repeatedly scribbled and erased. “I like what you did with the place, Granger.”

“Draco decorated it,” she said shortly. 

“If you say so,” he said suspiciously. “Mate, did you incendio her copy of _Hogwarts: A History_ or something?” 

Draco rolled his eyes and chose not to respond. He knew better than to air out his business with Granger. _Not in front of her, at least_. “I don’t deal well with tension,” whined Theo.

“Just shut your trap and wait, will you?” said Draco. He jerked back when Crookshanks materialized in front of them, blinking impassively before jumping straight into Theo’s lap. “Oh, for Salazar’s sake, are you fucking kidding me?”

“Oh, baby loves me,” cooed Theo, running his fingers through the cat’s fur. Draco’s lips curled in distaste. “Granger, I might just steal him.”

“Please do,” muttered Draco. 

“He’ll come back,” said Granger, still focused on the chalkboard. 

Draco stood up and approached the chalkboard, wanting to be as far away from Theo and the cat as possible. He knocked his shoulder lightly against Granger's, and she faced him long enough to give him a quick smile. “What’s bothering you?” 

Instead of answering, Granger raised her hand and drew a circle around Potter’s name. It shone in block letters below an arrow linking him to Robards. “I’m going to have to talk to him about all of this. And it’s not going to be fun.”

“I can do it,” he said, voice forcibly casual.

Granger looked at him with a frown, then her pursed lips relaxed into a low chuckle. “Oh, it was funny to imagine how that’d go,” she said, smiling softly at him. It instantly made him smile back. 

“What? I can take on Potter.”

“You’re not supposed to be taking on anyone, you twat,” she snickered. 

Before Draco could respond, they heard the sound of Daphne’s high heels tapping against the wooden floors. They turned to greet her, and she grinned at them, eyes subtly scanning the room. “Nice place.” 

“Granger wasn’t the one who decorated it, apparently,” said Theo, patting the spot beside him on the couch. Daphne rolled her eyes and walked towards him, seating herself on the far corner of the couch. 

“Sorry, I can’t get cat fur on this dress.”

“You’re so uppity,” muttered Theo, holding Crookshanks tighter in his arms. “No pureblood witch treats a host like that.” 

“You know what, Theo--”

“All right,” interrupted Granger, her voice silencing the pair. “I think Theo’s the only one who doesn’t know why we’re here.”

“Oh, yes. Please inform me.” 

Daphne stared at Draco and Hermione for a long second, “Draco and I are engaged,” she said in a rushed voice, as if ripping off a band-aid. “ _Un canular_ , obviously.”

Other than an arched brow, Theo’s expression didn’t change. “I’m guessing there’s more to this story than you suddenly deciding to spice up your little sham.” 

“I had to make a deal with Daphne’s father to get Lucius out of Azkaban, and now here we are.”

“But more than that,” added Granger, “Daphne’s dad and Robards have been manipulating the Ministry. I don’t know to what extent, but the MRC and rehab program are part of it. We do know that he’s trying to install his people in the Ministry, including Robards.” Her voice was neutral, but there was something about the way she moved that tugged at Draco’s heartstrings. Granger shone brighter when she was focused.

Draco struggled to tear his eyes away from her, but he forced himself to face Daphne and Theo, who were staring at them in concentration. “Daphne’s daddy is planning not only to get us in, but to get everyone who isn’t pureblood out.” 

“I think he’d spare the half-bloods,” snickered Theo.

“Only because there wouldn’t be enough of us, otherwise,” said Draco. “We’d be forced to actually work. It’d be a mess, we’d all starve.” 

“This isn’t a joke,” snapped Granger. 

“It isn’t,” agreed Daphne, looking from Draco to Theo with a scowl. “I don’t know if I have any helpful information, Hermione. I usually don’t try to know what my father is up to, it’s best to steer clear of his attention. But I think I can get some insight.” 

“You think he’d tell you?” said Draco, sounding skeptical. “He ran circles around me for ages before finally coming out with it, and I’m pretty sure it's only because the clock is ticking.”

“And because you handed him the opportunity to trap you in a silver platter, don’t you forget,” said Daphne, smirking when his lips twisted into a grimace. “And he’ll tell me, I’m a witch.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” said Theo. 

Hermione and Daphne traded a long glance, before Hermione muttered, “Because he doesn’t think she’d be a threat. Partly because she’s his daughter, but mostly because he doesn’t see her as intelligent enough to understand.” 

Daphne nodded. “And because my father likes to get his ego stroked. Robards does too, I’ll bet. It won’t take more than a bit of flattery to get them bragging.” 

Theo seemed to be deep in thought, then he looked at them with an expression of serious concern. “Do you think a witch has done that to me?” 

Daphne shot him a look. “Since you have a tendency to think you’re smarter than everyone, I’d say it’s likely.”

“Oh, in this particular group I’m only smarter than Draco,” he sighed in relief. “I’m smart enough to know that, so I’m guessing I’m safe.” 

“Okay,” said Draco pointedly. “Let’s focus, shall we?” 

“So,” said Granger, shaking off the moment of distraction. “He told Draco the rehab program was less about changing the participants’ mindset and more about changing the public’s perception. And it worked. The _Prophet_ is obviously biased, but even my research on the _Serpent Wire_ indicates that people’s views have shifted. They believe that former Death Eaters have been rehabilitated. The fact that they’re holding important positions in the Ministry positions and Wizengamot is actually a _talking point_ for Robards’s campaign. Everyone’s all better now. I mean, no one has _ever_ questioned how much the Wizengamot doesn’t make a lick of sense as a court, so I’m not surprised they aren’t questioning it now. ” 

“I’ve seen Robards at my house over the years, but I haven’t talked to him extensively,” said Daphne. “He did get Pansy a job as his assistant, though. Maybe we should’ve invited her.” 

Draco chuckled. “Oh, no,” he said. “Pansy will be on the winning team, no matter what. She’ll take a look at this chalkboard and laugh until she weeps. We can rely on her to keep her mouth shut, but that’s it.”

Theo hummed in agreement, absent-mindly running his fingers down Crookshanks’s back. Granger was writing Pansy’s name under Robards’s column. “Why does he care so much about Draco, though? No offense, but the Malfoys don’t have much to offer right now.”

“Because I’m the wanker he wants to represent him in the Wizengamot,” he spat. “He doesn’t like to call attention to himself, apparently.”

Granger’s expression turned thoughtful. “That may be true, but I don’t know,” she murmured, “men like that love attention. I think he’s using you for something else. If you’re the one publicly doing his bidding before he gets actual power, you’re the one who’ll take the fall in case he fails. He’ll stay clean enough to try again. And I bet no one would believe you if you tried to expose him.” 

Draco let her words sink in. He hadn’t actually considered that option. Douglass was an unremarkable man in appearance -- there was nothing charming about him, nothing that made people look twice in his direction. 

Without being fully conscious of it, he’d assumed Douglass wouldn’t be able to attract attention, even if he wanted to. He’d assumed he needed people like Draco -- younger, more handsome and charming, to accomplish what he couldn’t behind the curtain. Granger simultaneously proved him wrong and took him down a notch. _This damn witch_ , he groaned inwardly. 

“How does Potter fit into it all?” asked Daphne, pointing at his name. 

“Maybe Robards switched him to the dark side. Can you imagine?” snickered Theo. 

Granger spun around to face Theo, a furious expression on her face. “Because that’d make so much sense, to spend his entire life fighting and almost getting killed several times just to turn around and change his mind?” She rolled her eyes. “I know that none of you have much riding on this, but frankly.”

“Blimey, Granger,” said Theo. “It was a bloody joke.”

“You keep joking,” she shook her head, “but I don’t think any of you has given this enough thought. If Robards wins the election, if Douglass and him accomplish _half_ of what they’re planning, then thousands of people will be expelled from the Wizarding World, or maybe even killed. And for what? Because no matter how much we fight, there are still bastards that think they’re superior because of their blood,” she spat. “The three of you can go on with your lives if we don’t stop this from happening, but I can’t, and other people like me can’t either. We’ll be treated as second-class citizens. We’ll be stripped of our basic rights, and that’s a best case scenario. And for what?”

“Granger--”

“Don’t interrupt me, Draco,” she snapped. “You can joke all you want, but I’d rather do this by myself if none of you will treat this with the seriousness it deserves.” 

The silence stretched around the room for a long moment, her words hanging in the air with a discernible force. Draco saw Daphne and Theo shift uncomfortably. He looked at Granger from the corner of his eye -- she was slightly flushed, but there was nothing but determination in her eyes. 

“You’re right, Granger. We’ll be able to go on our merry fucking way, I mean,” said Theo. “Most of us aided the fucking Dark Lord in some way, and here we are, right? Mainly unpunished. But I care about the Wizarding World, and to be honest with you, this will royally mess with my plan to slouch through life. So, yeah, I take it seriously.” 

Daphne sighed. “I do too, of course.” 

“Great,” said Hermione, turning to Draco. “Didn’t you say he asked about Theo?”

“Little ol’ me?”

“He wants you to rethink his suggestion to work for the Ministry.”

“Yeah, that won’t happen,” smirked Theo.

“It might be a good way of getting information,” pointed out Granger.

“No, it won’t.” He wiggled a finger in denial. “I have plenty of access to information, and that’s because I’m not publicly affiliated with anyone. I need both time and freedom to do what I do.”

“You make it sound like it’s a real job,” said Daphne in a patronizing tone.

“You can laugh all you want, but there’s only so much you’ll get by sucking up to your daddy. I know people that would rather swallow horned slugs than say anything of value to any of you,” he said. “I’m going to help, but in my own way. This isn’t negotiable.” 

“I agree,” said Granger, brushing off Theo’s look of mild surprise. “I think you’re the most resourceful out of us, but you should keep the pretense of considering it, for as long as you can. Go to a meeting with him, say you’re interested but aren’t too sure, ask good questions and try not to raise suspicion. I’m sure you can manage it.”

He pointed a finger at Granger. “That I can do, boss,” he said, then carefully placed Crookshanks on the ground before standing up and stretching his arms. “Now, are you guys planning to feed us? All this scheming is making me hungry.”

He didn’t wait for approval before heading into the kitchen and sticking his head inside the fridge. Daphne stood up to follow him. She shrugged, “I’m actually hungry too.”

Granger chuckled under her breath, setting her piece of chalk on the coffee table before turning to Draco, “Let’s go before they eat all the food your elf sent you.” 

“I went to the Manor and got more,” he shrugged, but headed after her. “I knew they’d want something if we weren’t going to give them alcohol.” 

They leaned against the isle separating the kitchen from the living room, watching with amusement as Theo shoveled food out of the fridge and pushed it into Daphne’s arms, both of them complaining about the lack of firewhiskey. 

Granger cocked her head towards him. “I owled Hestia Jones while you were out,” she muttered. “I’m going to support her election campaign.”

“Okay.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me why?” she said. “Or how it fits into all these plans? I need Harry’s support, but I know it’s probably going to make convincing him harder. Maybe he’ll wonder what my real motivation is.”

Draco leaned down until their faces were mere inches apart. “Potter’s a fool if he doesn’t trust you, Hermione,” he muttered. “I do.”

“On a scale of one to ten?” she asked, her gaze unflinching. 

He smiled. “Eleven,” he muttered back. “Unsurprisingly, you’re ahead of everyone else.”

Granger smiled, crinkling her nose slightly crinkled; her iris almost disappeared between her crescent moon eyes. He knew she was still mad at him, and probably would be for a while, but she didn’t protest when he lifted his hand to cup her chin, tilting her face to press their lips together once, then twice. 

Then they heard a loud click. 

Their heads snapped towards the sound, finding Theo behind a large camera. Daphne rolled her eyes at him while nibbling on a white chocolate truffle. 

“What?” shrugged Theo. “I told you I was going to buy a camera.” 

Draco flipped him the bird before moving in for another kiss. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall!!! september was like the month from hell and i'm finally recovering so i'm extra happy to bring this specific chapter to you because it was one of my favorites to write :)) when i started writing this story, i hoped to write the ups and downs of a relationship, this one has so much of that, i hope yall enjoy it!
> 
> thank you so much for the comments always, everyone who reaches out here and on tumblr, its always the loveliest part of my days! can't wait to hear your thoughts, and hope life is being good to every single one of you.


	30. We Now Have Our Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, grateful as heck for @jeparlepasfrancais's work.

“ ** _Now that we have our dead, what are we going to do with them?_ ** There’s a black dog and there’s a white dog, depends on which you feed, depends on which damn dog you live with,” Richard Siken, Straw House, Straw Dog

* * *

Hermione stood in the doorway of Hestia Jones’ election campaign office and blinked.

The scene unfolding in front of her was hectic at best and chaotic at worst. 

Fifty or so people were scurrying around the open room, all seemingly losing a battle against time. Some were sitting at the long tables pushed against opposite walls of the room, waving their wands to charm flyers and pour over thick stacks of files. Others moved in and out of the cubicles set up in one corner, stopping shortly to exchange notes before sprinting away. 

Hermione caught a peek of that day’s issue of _The Daily Prophet_ and several other publications being swapped from hand to hand. In the most isolated section of the room, a sole wizard sat by a small desk, his charmed quill dutifully scribbling on a growing roll of parchment while he intently listened to the radio.

Hestia’s face was plastered over almost every inch of the room. Posters announcing her campaign littered the tables, and on the walls hung photographs of her at campaign events and talking to voters. Hermione couldn’t help but notice a recurring theme. Hestia was always surrounded by diverse groups of magical beings: elves, goblins, or werewolves, all of whom circled around her with dazed expressions of adoration. 

A tiny witch stopped in front of her, large eyes scrutinizing Hermione over the rim of a _Vote Jones_ mug. “Hermione Granger.” 

“Yes, hi,” she began, stretching her lips into a greeting smile, “I’m here to see--”

“Come with me,” said the woman, marching off without sparing her another glance. Hermione struggled to match her pace, smiling apologetically when she almost bumped into a stressed-looking wizard. “I’m Allegra,” she threw over her shoulder. “The initial plan was to meet you in a quieter place, but things have gotten even busier.”

“I don’t mind,” she said distractly, overwhelmed by the boisterous activity around her. No one seemed to notice her there -- people were too focused on their tasks, too preoccupied by a common goal to pay her any mind. It filled her with relief. “We’re months away from the election, is it normal for things to be this busy?”

“It’s campaign time. Trust me, it’d be more worrisome if things were quiet.” She pushed open a glass door and mentioned for Hermione to step in ahead of her. 

They entered a long and narrow hallway, the rambunctious noise of the main room giving way to abrupt silence. The bare walls were painted a soothing shade of violet, free from the campaign merchandise which covered the rest of the office. 

“Of course, the closure of the MRC made things a bit more--” said Allegra, slowing her pace enough for Hermione to fall into a step beside her, “-- frenzied, I’d say.”

“Is that why Hestia wanted to meet me so soon? I owled her only a couple of days ago.”

“Yes, your endorsement was the go ahead sign we needed to move forward. Time is of the essence, Miss Granger,” said Allegra. They stopped in front of a door, which swung open before she raised a fist to knock. “You can go in. Nice to meet you.”

She didn’t wait for a response before sashaying down the hallway, clearly unwilling to waste time chatting around. Hermione watched her disappear back into the chaos before entering what appeared to be a conference room. 

Hestia was seated at a leather chair in front of a round teak table. Her hair was pulled into a high ponytail that swished as she turned to smile in greeting. “Hello, Hermione,” she said, motioning to the chair across from her. “You can sit, I’m sorry for asking you here. It’s not an ideal place for meetings, but I was only able to squeeze in a couple of minutes to see you. How are you doing?”

“Oh, I’m all right,” she said, taking in the mark of stress in Hestia’s face. The door closed as soon as Hermione took her seat. “I could come another time--”

“We have some things to settle,” said Hestia smoothly. “You saw the chaos out there and I’m sure Allegra’s brought you up to speed. She’s very efficient.”

“She did mention that time was of essence, yes,” said Hermione. “But she was cryptic about the reasons behind your stress, which I can pretty much guess.”

Hestia chuckled. “She’s very protective. It’s not personal, she prefers to be vague unless she absolutely can’t,” she said. “Yes, this is about the MRC’s closure. A rather shocking turn of events. There were no whispers of it in the Wizengamot prior to the announcement, so we’re working around the clock to catch up.”

“I only got the letter Saturday. I’d have warned you if I’d known in advance,” she said, forcing a nonchalant tone. Hermione hadn’t discussed with Draco what she’d disclose to Hestia, but she planned to guard most of what she’d learned in a tightly protected safe. The obvious strain in Hestia’s expression tugged at her sympathy, but she brushed the feeling away. “I’m guessing this has worked in Robards’s favor?”

“After the speech he gave on the radio this morning? Absolutely,” she scoffed, flipping through a file before finding the parchment she needed, which she slid across the table. “This report just got in. My staff spent the past two hours outside approaching people and asking their thoughts on it, and well, you can read for yourself.”

Hermione picked up the parchment, her eyes swiftly scanning the array of colorful graphs. She didn’t need to linger to catch the drift -- the closure was positively perceived by a group of almost fifty witches and wizards, and they uniformly attributed it to Gawain Robards. “This is a very small sample, Hestia,” she said, handing the report back.

“We’ve got another coming in the afternoon, but I’m sure it’ll be more of the same. Hermione, you told me there were several inconsistencies in the rehab program, but today Robards spent over thirty minutes boasting about its success--”

“His data was obviously fabricated.”

“ _The Daily Prophet_ didn’t point that out. Or _Witch Weekly_ , or--”

“That’s because no one knows,” argued Hermione. “Did you know that my former boss, Bart Hughman, is the head of a newly formed division of the DMLE? He took the job the same day they closed the MRC, which they didn’t inform any of the employees in advance. Robards is hugely influential inside the DMLE, it’s not a stretch to think Hughman might manipulate information for him to get a favor like that.”

Hestia held her gaze steadily. “Do you have proof of that?”

“I don’t have copies of their letters confirming it, if that’s what you meant,” she said. 

“So what led you to think that?” said Hestia in an exaggerated voice. “I mean, you’re Hermione _Granger._ You pride yourself on being objective and factual. But here you are, making a rather fantastic claim without any concrete evidence.”

The line of questioning poked uncomfortably at her guts, and her face hardened. “I have copies of reports that show Hughman twisted information about the rehab program since its inception,” she said. “I also have the testimony of the healer in charge, whose reports were tampered with.” Her voice rose in volume. “I have personal knowledge that a hefty donation to the Center wasn’t used, because Hughman used finances to justify cutting back the rehab programme. I have dozens of statements made by Robards to the media, all of which were fabrications--”

“You’ll show me some papers and expect me to doubt a man who’s worked dutifully for the Ministry for longer than you’ve been in the Wizarding World?” she pressed.

Hermione sprawled her palms on the table and learned forward. “I worked at the MRC. I saw the data. There’s no doubt that someone manipulated the stats. The only question is who. As head of the DMLE, Robards had the motive and opportunity to put a positive spin on the rehab program so that he’d have a better chance of becoming Minister of Magic. And Hughman has to be involved, I don’t know how else you’d explain his quick rise up the ladder. Instead of questioning me, why don’t you ask Robards and Hughman about what happened with the Center? Why so many former Death Eaters got out early? Why are so many of them now working for the Ministry?” she spat. “The Wizarding World has fallen prey to power-hungry wizards for way too long, don’t fool yourself into thinking they couldn’t do it again.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t,” said Hestia, her face relaxing into a satisfied smile. “But people don’t like to think they’ve been manipulated, Hermione, and they’re going to be way tougher than me if you keep asking these questions,” she said. “I need to know if you can take it.”

She squared her shoulders. “I tend to thrive under pressure.”

“I can see that,” she nodded. “And I do believe you. I’ve done some digging around since our last encounter. I found out the MRC’s liaison to the DMLE is a pureblood witch barely out of Hogwarts, certainly not qualified to hold such a position. But she was recommended for the job by Robards and was clearly under his command.”

“He never left the department, did he?”

“He’s got his hands over every inch of it,” she tipped her head to the side. “Have you talked to Harry Potter about this? He sees Robards as an mentor, so maybe--”

“I’ve tried,” she interrupted, unwilling to open that can of worms. Hestia seemed like she wanted to press, but the firmness in Hermione’s gaze was indisputable. 

After a beat, Hestia brushed past it. “Without proof, everything we’ve just said is speculation,” she said. “I can’t put it in a statement.”

“What about the Wizengamot?” asked Hermione. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot since we spoke. I can trace its corruption back to the way it treated Harry as a teenager. Or how it never gave Sirius Black a chance when he was framed by Voldemort,” she said. “Can you imagine what we might find out, if we go back even longer _?_ Can’t you put _that_ in your statement? Divert people’s attention from the MRC, make them ask questions.”

“Hermione, I’m a judge in the Wizengamot, I can’t just--”

“I’m glad you brought that up,” she barged on. “Why isn’t changing the Wizengamot a part of your platform? People are inheriting chairs like we are a bloody monarchy, it makes no sense.”

Hestia flinched and gave Hermione a blank look. _She hasn’t thought about this_ , she realized, with blinding clarity. _How does someone who wants to change the Wizarding World hasn’t thought about this?_

It seemed so bloody clear to her -- if the court worked as it was supposed to, Robards wouldn’t be a threat. And Douglass wouldn’t have gotten as far as he already had. If Hermione wanted to make a difference, she’d have to cut off this mess at its bloody roots.

The silence rang loud in the room, but Hermione didn’t press. Instead, she leaned back in her chair. “Why did you ask me here today, Hestia?”

Hestia seemed confused at the change in subject, but replied, “we need to announce your support for my election.” 

“Put it in your platform.” 

“Excuse me?”

“Put systematic changes to the Wizengamot in your platform,” said Hermione, in a matter-of-fact tone. “It’s apparent to me that it’s the only way forward.”

“Hermione,” sighed Hestia. “It’s not that simple. Going after the Wizengamot would make a lot of people angry, and make it even harder for me to get elected. I understand where you’re coming from, but--”

Hermione felt suddenly furious. The enormity of what she was fighting against was staring her right in the face, and she felt her anger embrace her like armor. “That’s my price,” said Hermione, standing up from her chair. She met Hestia’s eyes and grimaced. “If you want me to endorse your campaign, put the Wizengamot in there. Otherwise, I guess you’ll have to find another member of the Golden Trio to back you. Maybe you should try Ron.”

Hestia frowned when Hermione began to stand up. “No need to be hasty,” she said, waving a hand. “If it’s really that important to you, I’ll include the Wizengamot in my platform.” Hermione sat back down. “I’ll propose a _revision_ \--”

“Seriously?”

“--of the Wizengamot’s procedures,” said Hestia firmly. “What you want is huge, and I can’t propose it out of nowhere. Robards would paint me as a radical. I’d be political anathema, and lose this election and maybe my seat in the Wizengamot. Revisions are a start. I can begin there, and we’ll see how it goes when I get elected. That’s me being realistic.”

Hermione didn’t answer right away, trying to weigh her options. A voice in the back of her mind reminded her, _You don’t actually have many_ , and she immediately silenced it. 

Her mind whirled in different directions, and a picture was beginning to form, not fully painted, but enough to make her sit up a bit straighter. If people had reason to question the Wizengamot, then maybe Hestia’s proposals wouldn’t be as criticized. Maybe they wouldn’t have as hard a time believing it, when the truth about Douglass and Robards came out. _That I can do_ , realized Hermione. 

“What do you have in mind to announce my support?” she said at last.

Hestia sighed in relief. “A _Daily Prophet_ interview with Padma Patil.”

“That won’t work,” she said smoothly. “Not only have they written nasty articles about me, but they’ve neglected to give the public unbiased information. I won’t support them.”

“Hermione,” she tried to reason, “I get that, and I don’t disagree. But the _Prophet_ ’s reach is unparalleled. Unfortunately, _The Quibbler_ or _Witch Weekly_ aren’t going to work for this.”

“How about _The Serpent Wire?_ ” suggested Hermione, confidence increasing in her voice “They’re impartial, they’ve been questioning and criticizing Robards and the Ministry for a while now. They’d be perfect.”

“They don’t publish on a large scale,” she argued. “It's selective and expensive.”

“They will if I’m on the cover, and that will lower the costs for the edition,” said Hermione, ignoring the instant discomfort she felt about putting herself on display. “They don’t get many features, I don’t think they’d hesitate to run with this.”

Hestia’s eyes travelled over Hermione’s face. “That might work,” she said, after a moment of hesitation. “And it’ll be big enough news that the _Prophet_ will be forced to report it. They won’t be pleased, but that might work.”

“Hestia, I have to be upfront about this,” started Hermione. “I’m going to say everything that I think about Robards. I’m going to be smart about it, but I’ll raise the questions I think people should start asking. If you don’t think that aligns with your campaign strategy, you might want to reconsider asking for my support.”

The woman leaned back in her chair and licked her lips. There was nothing impulsive about her, and Hermione understood that she was calculating the risks in her mind. 

She couldn’t begrudge Hestia for it, but there was nothing that would dissuade her from the decision. Hermione _knew_ it’d work -- Hestia or no Hestia, she’d be giving this interview. 

The thought of stepping into the spotlight weighed heavily in her, but the feeling wasn’t stronger than her conviction. Hermione’s skin was already full of scars she took for something greater than herself. 

Hestia finally rose from her seat, the corner of her lips tugging up into a trace of a smile. “You’re Hermione Granger,” she said. “You can speak your own damn mind, if you want to.” 

_

After Hestia agreed to contact _The Serpent Wire_ to set up the interview, Allegra re-entered the conference room, gesturing pointedly to her golden wrist watch before hurrying them back into the pandemonium. There, Hestia explained their set up while Allegra instructed them to strategically pose for photos. It was half an hour of perfectly timed smiles and faking deep conversations, and by the time they were finally satisfied, Hermione’s energy had plummeted. 

She said her goodbyes and fled the building as soon as she could, her mind already moving on to more important matters. _I need to talk to Harry before this interview_ \--

The dissolution of their friendship had eaten at her, piece by piece, over the expanse of several months. She wasn’t sure if it scared her more to think she’d permanently lost him, or to know that she’d be fine, if that happened. 

She sighed, barely noticing her surroundings as she marched towards the nearest apparition point, her body on autopilot while her mind ran in headache-inducing circles. 

A throbbing began to form in the back of her head, and Hermione tightened her hold in her purse’s strap, quickening her pace. 

She didn’t notice Ginny until she almost ran into her. 

“Hermione!” she exclaimed, a grin splitting her face as she eagerly pulled Hermione into a tight hug. “I’m so glad I ran into you.”

“Oh, hello there,” said Hermione, sheepishly peeking over her friend’s shoulder. Ginny seemed to be alone, but the dread didn’t dissipate right away. “What are you doing here?”

“I was going to get lunch with Harry but he bailed on me.” She rolled her eyes. “Something about an emergency meeting.”

Hermione tried to hide her relief, but the slight fall of Ginny’s smile was telling. “I’m sorry about that,” she rushed to say, searching for anything to avoid the question she knew was coming. She didn’t want to talk to Ginny about him, not when her head was still at odds with her heart. 

“Have you and Harry talked about--”

“I have something to tell you!” Ginny narrowed her eyes, and Hermione forced a smile on her face. “What we talked about at the Ministry ball, remember?”

Ginny’s eyebrows rose as realization sank in. “Finally! I was waiting for you to owl me, but I didn’t want to pressure you. But Hermione--”

“Let’s go somewhere,” she interrupted, suddenly aware they were standing on the sidewalk of a relatively busy street. They didn’t seem to be attracting much attention, but she knew being overheard by an overtly curious passerby was enough to cause lasting damage. “We can’t talk here.”

“Well, obviously,” said Ginny. “The diner I was going to go to with Harry is just around the corner.”

Hermione shook her head. “A restaurant during lunch hour is as bad as owling Padma about this myself.”

“We can go to the Burrow, but my mum’s there, and Percy is visiting,” said Ginny, hesitating before continuing. “We could go to yours and Harry’s place--”

“It’s not my place anymore,” said Hermione, regretting her snap decision before it even left her mouth. She threw a wish into the universe, hoping to Merlin that this wouldn’t inevitably blow up in her face. “We can go to my flat. We’ll have privacy there.” 

Ginny seemed momentarily taken aback, but she didn’t attempt to hide her curiosity. She eagerly looped her arm in Hermione’s. “Let’s go then, I can’t wait to see it.”

“Oh, you’re going to love it,” she responded, forcing herself to drag her feet towards the apparition point. 

If Ginny noticed the awkward energy oozing from every pore in Hermione’s body, she pretended to be completely unaware, her mouth already running about her upcoming wedding.

_

They landed gracelessly in the flat. 

Hermione allowed herself a moment to shake off the queasiness that always remained after apparating, letting her hold fall from Ginny’s arm before taking a step back. 

When she turned to face her, Ginny was already spinning around the room, lips parted in a silent gasp as she took in her surroundings. 

Hermione almost smiled -- she remembered seeing the flat for the first time, her awe cutting through the heartache she’d felt at the time. Watching Ginny’s reaction made her notice how much things had changed.

Every inch of the space was a mixture of her and Draco, from the furniture, to the books scattered across the coffee table and the coffee mugs stacked in the sink. Individually, but coming together as well. _It felt like home,_ she realized, choosing not to linger on it for long. She wouldn’t be able to stop the thoughts from shining through in her face. 

She left Ginny to it, rushing to the dining area. _I don’t need her asking questions before I talk to Harry_ , she thought, quietly muttering a spell to camouflage the chalkboard. 

She gave Crookshanks a treat, and by the time she walked back into the living room, Ginny was sitting quietly on the couch. “This is a big flat for one person,” she said, when Hermione sat by her side. “It seems expensive, too. I don’t mean to be rude, but I heard the MRC closed, which is great news, but can you afford the rent of this place?”

“Of course that’s the first thing you’d wonder about,” said Hermione with a chuckle. “I don’t pay rent here. I don’t own this flat, but--”

“But it’s yours,” said Ginny. “There’s a lot of _you_ here. I’m pretty sure I spotted a rug my mum knitted for your old room by the fireplace.” 

Hermione sighed. “Ginny--”

“So, did that bloke of yours give you this flat? ” she continued. “And he must be rich, because this is _not_ a cheap flat to own. And we both know who’s the rich wanker I’ve seen you around lately, Hermione.” 

She swallowed past the lump forming in her throat, her voice breaking. “I wanted to tell you before, but Ginny--”

“For Morgana’s sake, are you serious?” said Ginny, her fingers touching her parted lips. There wasn’t surprise in her expression, but she still looked astounded. “I was hoping that it wasn’t true.”

Against her best efforts, Hermione’s eyes began to sting. The way Ginny was looking at her -- no amount of self-reassurance and overthinking her decision had prepared her for it. It made her heart fall into her stomach.

Ginny shot up from the couch, her boots stomping against the wooden floors as she began to pace in front of the fireplace. As stubborn tears began to well up in her eyes, she took a deep breath and watched as her friend burnt a hole on the floor. Upset and hurt were present, but she couldn’t muster an ounce of shame. 

She was in love with Draco Malfoy. 

Hermione had known it for far longer than she could let herself fathom. She loved him for the kindness and stability he’d shown her, and she loved him even when he fell and was wrong and when he made her burn in anger. 

No one would make her feel ashamed of it. 

“Ginny,” said Hermione, pressing her eyes closed. “I know that you never liked him, and I know about all of our history. But Draco’s different, now--”

“How can you say that?” she interrupted, stopping her pacing to scowl at Hermione, her hands on her hips. She looked every bit like her mother. “No matter what you say, nothing makes this right. And he obviously pounced when you and Harry had your fight--”

“What?” she gasped, anger and affront brewing inside of her. “I’m a grown woman.”

“And he somehow convinced you that _this_ was worth it,” she said, gesturing to the flat. “But he’s wrong, Hermione. You deserve better --”

Hermione faltered, confusing slicing through her anger. “What?”

“No rich, good-looking bloke is worth you being a bloody _mistress_ , Hermione Granger,” commanded Ginny. “You deserve someone who’ll proudly claim you--”

“Oh, Ginny,” she gasped, her mind clearing and an incredulous laugh bursting out of her.

The sound only seemed to fuel Ginny’s fury. “Daphne Greengrass deserves better too! You’re both gorgeous, capable witches, and if he can’t make up his own bloody mind--”

“You’ve got it all wrong!”

“Then he deserves to be alone like the two-faced ferret is. I could drop a scalding cauldron on his head!” her voice rang loudly. “Hermione, I should’ve talked to you about this ages ago, but you looked so happy--”

“Ginny--” 

“And I thought he’d break up with her, but they’re still together all the time, and I can’t watch you do this without at least trying to show you how much more--”

“Ginny!” yelled Hermione, standing up from the couch. Her hands flew to Ginny’s shoulders, the movement halting her rant. “You’ve got it all wrong.”

“Oh, really?” she said, her voice filled with skepticism. “How come?” 

“You got it _so_ wrong,” she muttered, suddenly overcome by appreciation. The tears returned, and this time, Hermione let them fall. She tugged Ginny into her arms and squeezed her against her chest. “But thank you so much,’ she said, burying her face in the red mass of hair. At first, Ginny’s arms remained slack, but she soon lifted them to pat Hermione's back hesitantly. “It means a lot to me.”

“Oh dear,” she muttered. “You’ve got some explaining to do.”

“I know,” she said, voice muffled. The tears fell against her lips in salty drops of water, and she sniffed, giving herself another moment to absorb that Ginny’s first instinct wasn’t to be angry at her, but _for_ her. 

“Okay,” said Hermione, letting go of Ginny and wiping the tears away. She smiled, but her friend was still looking at her with confusion. “Sit down with me.”

Ginny didn’t hesitate before sinking into the couch, and Hermione sat beside her, folding her legs and grabbing one of the throw pillows. She hugged it to her chest. “It means a lot to me, that you came to my defense like that--”

“What else was I going to do? He’s obviously a bloody twat and--”

“But I’m not his mistress,” she cut her off, almost giggling. “He’s not dating Daphne.”

“Is that what he made you believe? I’m going to hex off his bloody limbs--”

“ _Ginevra_ ,” she exclaimed, and Ginny stopped mid-sentence. “I’m going to say my piece, and you’ll listen! I’m thankful, but things aren’t the way they seem. Will you shut up for a second?”

Her lips pursed, and she crossed her arms over her chest. “Fine,” she muttered grudgingly. 

Hermione stalled. Now that Ginny was finally quiet, she didn’t quite know how to begin to explain. Her relationship with Draco was a curved line, and at times, wrapped in barbed wire. Being with him was calm amidst the storm -- it made perfect sense, and it kept her steady, but the wind seemed to get stronger every day, threatening to sweep them away with its strength. She didn’t know how to tell Ginny the outer pressure did nothing to scare her. 

“Well?” pressed Ginny.

“I don’t know how it started,” she said, letting the words come out without polish. “I was put in charge of his rehab group at the MRC. We argued at the weekly meetings, until our arguments weren’t fueled by anger, anymore. We were just interested in talking to each other, Ginny. He drives me mad, but he challenges me, too. I ignored my instincts and I kept talking to him.” The corner of her lips tugged into a small smile. “And we became friends, I think. And he was there for me, even when we still pretended to hate each other. And I was the one who kissed him first, you know?”

“Hermione, it doesn’t make it right--”

“Ginny, he’s not cheating on Daphne. I found out about their supposed dating after our first kiss, and I was bloody mad at him at first, but he explained it to me. They have this deal, all right? I can’t tell you the details because it’s not my business, but it’s a stunt, basically. And yes, I do believe it because he told me, but if it makes you feel better, I’ve talked to Daphne herself about it. They don’t have any feelings for each other.”

Ginny seemed to absorb her words, then she lifted an eyebrow. “Okay, fine. But how long has this been happening? And why? Merlin, Hermione, I get what you’re saying, but he’s bloody Draco Malfoy. Former Death-Eater, our childhood bully, a conceited, spoiled brat, remember?”

“Ginny, I don’t know how to explain it to you, but trust me. Draco is--” she exhaled. “He’s not perfect. He makes a lot of mistakes, but I do, too. And he doesn’t judge me for them. He never makes me feel inadequate, or weak, and he doesn’t belittle me. I’ve been at my worst in front of him more times than I can count--” she paused. “I can be weak in front of him, and he holds me up. I found out he lied to me about… stuff, recently. And when I was trying to decide whether I could forgive him, I just-- Ginny, I just thought about how he never, not once, gave me a reason to doubt how he feels for me. So, yeah, he’s bloody Draco Malfoy, but he’s ...”

“What?”

“Still a conceited, spoiled brat, but loyal to a fault, a bloody smooth-talker, the best listener I’ve ever met, strangely great at advice, and I’m really, out of my mind, into him,” she rushed out. “I didn’t choose to be, but I wouldn’t choose _not_ to.”

She watched Ginny’s face twitch. She still seemed confused, but her anger had dissipated. “Okay, if that’s how it is,” she said, releasing a chuckle. “Merlin, I’ve never seen you speak about anyone like that. This is so weird.”

“Yeah,” she exhaled. “I’ll be honest, I thought you were going to shun me, you know? That you wouldn’t be my friend anymore, if you knew.”

Ginny gave her a perplexed look. “Because you’re dating Malfoy? Honestly, when you started talking, I questioned your taste in wizards.” She gave Hermione a pointed look. “But that’s because Malfoy isn’t exactly likable, and I thought you were his concubine or whatever his sort calls it. But you look so happy, it makes it easier to try to understand.”

“That time we had lunch and we ran into him and Daphne, you said that anyone who associated with the likes of him was just as bad.”

Ginny’s expression softened, and she placed one of her hands on top of Hermione’s. “If it were anyone else, I wouldn’t give them the benefit of the doubt,” she smiled. “But I’ve known you since we were children, Hermione. I know you better than that. How could I ever think that of you? The way I see it, if Malfoy associates with _you_ , then he clearly can’t be _that_ bad. You wouldn’t be with him, otherwise.”

Gratitude filled her chest, and she made sure it showed in her expression. “You know that Harry and Ron wouldn’t think the same.”

“I don’t know about that,” she said. “I love Harry so much, but I don’t agree with how he’s been acting. I think you can talk it through, and he might be thrown off at first, but you’re family to him, Hermione.”

“I don’t even think he knows me anymore, Ginny,” she sniffed. “We both got lost along the way, and we hurt each other in that process. I love him, but I’m not sure I can give him what he needs from me. I don’t know if I want to.”

“He thinks exactly the same,” she said. “You’re both so thick-headed you can’t communicate without anger getting in the way.”

“Well,” said Hermione, unsure if she believed her. “Even if Harry and I work it out. Ron--”

“Oh yeah,” she hummed affirmatively. “My brother’s a lost cause. I don’t know if he’s in love with you or with the idea of being with you. But that’s his problem.”

Hermione chuckled. “I’m not leaving Draco just because Ron will throw a tantrum.”

“And you shouldn’t.”

“But you can’t tell any of them,” she warned. “I have to do it myself.”

“Do you think I want to be in that particular line of fire? _Please_ , I’m not going to say a word,” she grunted, then her face brightened with mischievousness. “So, are you living together?”

“He doesn’t live here, technically. But he stays here more than he does at the Manor, so yes, I guess? But it’s not official, or anything--”

“You must be shagging a whole damn lot.”

“ _Ginevra!”_

She wiggled her eyebrows. “What? I know that I am. Marriage is an aphrodisiac.”

Hermione hid her face in the throw pillow, listening to Ginny’s increasingly crass words and laugh begin to reverberate in the room. 

_

Draco knew that silence could be deafening. 

He knew that it could fill up a space until you were ready to burst with the weight of it, and he knew it could ring as loud as a crowd. 

Unfortunately, there was no silence in the Manor’s main dining room.

The elves were beside themselves in eagerness, popping in and out of the room while carrying trays that threatened to topple with food far past the point of being enough. He wasn’t sure if it was Narcissa’s way of ensuring Lucius knew their wealth was secure, or her attempt to keep busy amidst the madness. 

If he had to guess, he’d say it was both. 

Draco dragged his index finger over the icing of a three-layer dark chocolate cake, ignoring Minzy's pointed look as he sucked it into his mouth. “ _Draco,_ ” exclaimed his mother, walking into the room with grimace, her eyes on the ruined cake. “That was for dessert!”

“We’ll definitely miss it,” he said in a dry tone, an elf scurrying forward to take it away. He swept his hand over the overfilled table. “Sick people don’t have that much of an appetite, mother.”

“Take a seat, Draco,” ordered Narcissa, ignoring his words in favor of fiddling with a flower arrangement that was already perfectly placed. “He’ll be down shortly.” 

“Are there any empty seats? I mean, you’ve made the elves run ragged all day, I assumed we’re inviting the whole fallen Death-Eater squad.” He chuckled wryly. “It’s like Salazar Slytherin himself is coming for dinner. Should’ve I picked my best robes?”

“Draco, do not test me today,” she hissed, looking at him with a tightness in her eyes. Draco shrugged and sat down by the head of the table, where he always did, pretending not to notice her following his every move. “You’ve been here all day, why didn’t you go see him?”

Draco flicked a non-existent speck of dirt off his shirt’s sleeves. “I thought I’d give him some time to rest. He just arrived, after all,” he said flippantly. 

Narcissa let out a long-suffering sigh before sitting across from him, her sharp nails drumming against the side of a crystal wine glass. “You should’ve invited Daphne.”

“This is a family dinner.”

“Asta showed me photographs of the ring,” said Narcissa. “Daphne’s family, now.”

Her words felt like pouring salt over an open wound, and his words came out harsher than he meant for them to. “Just what you wanted, right?” 

His mother’s cheeks turned pink, and Draco waited for the reprimand. Before she could, his father’s commanding voice filled the room. “Watch your tone when you’re talking to your mother, boy.”

He hadn’t believed Lucius Malfoy was sick. 

To Draco, his illness had been weightless; nothing about it felt concrete, not even as it became the driving force behind him selling his soul to another wizard.

But there was no denying it, now that it was quite literally in front of his eyes. 

Lucius’s naturally pale complexion had worsened -- even from a distance, his skin looked ashen and drab, likely the result of his evident illness coupled with a long absence of sunlight. His long, platinum blond hair had been sharply cut, falling flatly to his shoulders. He had made an effort to tidy it up for the evening, but the contrast was stark, even under the dim lights of the room. 

A day of rest in his home hadn’t cleared the dark bags under his eyes, or cured the frailty of his bones. Draco didn’t know if it was the increasing pressure in his chest that made time appear to slow down, or if his father was truly inching across the room, but by the time he sat at the head of the table, his skin was glistening with sweat. 

Draco wanted to look away from him. But he didn’t feel like he could. 

Lucius cleared his throat, the jut of his chin faking bravado. “Well,” he muttered. “Shall we eat?” 

Neither Draco nor Narcissa uttered a word. Lucius averted his gaze, reaching for the silverware sitting by the side of his porcelain plate. His hands shook as his fingers wrapped around the fork, slipping from his hold and tumbling into the floor. 

The clatter rang loud in the room, and a house elf materialized out of thin air, replacing the fork with a clean one before disappearing just as fast. 

Lucius started to serve himself his food, and neither Draco nor Narcissa uttered a word. 

_

His father was the first to leave the dining room. They pretended to listen to Narcissa’s determined attempts to fill the silence, eager to hide the tension that seemed to flow back and forth between Draco and Lucius. 

For twenty long minutes, she gushed about Daphne, made passive-aggressive comments about the Greengrasses’ smaller estate, and ranted about the audacity of Hestia Jones, as if her existence was a personal offense. 

He wondered what his mother knew about Douglass’ plans, and vowed to himself that he wouldn’t end that night without finding out. 

They hadn’t made a dent in the banquet, but Draco remained in his seat as the elves filtered back into the room, clearing dishes and moving seamlessly around them. 

His mother was quietly sipping her white wine, a distant quality to her gaze. 

“That was lovely,” he said sarcastically. “It’s like he never left.”

“Why are you so angry with me, Draco?” asked Narcissa, not looking at him. 

Draco exhaled a dry laugh, watching her finger trace the seam of the crystal. “I’m not angry with you, mother,” he said. And he wasn’t. He felt a tornado of emotions towards her, and while most were unpleasant, there wasn’t any anger there. 

“Good,” she said, finally facing him. “Because you’ll be here a lot more often the next few days, and I can’t deal with you snapping and pouting.”

“You won’t have to, mother,” he smirked. “Because I won’t be here.”

“Have you not seen how sick your father is?” she pleaded. “He needs the both of us here.”

“He didn’t seem particularly eager to be around us,” he scoffed. “Or have you missed how he fled the room like his arse was on fire? I don’t _need_ to be here.”

“Oh, son,” she shook her head. “How can you still fail to understand your father? He’s a prideful man. It took all of him to even leave the bed tonight. He doesn’t want his son to see him as weak,” she said. “And he _is_ weak, Draco, but _you_ are not. And you need to be here.”

“Daphne won’t like it,” he lied. “This wedding business is making her needier than usual, I'm sure you understand. If you want to be affiliated with the Greengrasses as badly as you proclaim, I need to keep my bride happy.”

“Daphne can stay here for the next week, it’s not a problem.” 

“Oh, she can’t,” he chuckled mirthlessly. “It’d be very scandalous to have Douglass’ little jewel stay here while unwed.”

His mother looked at him dubiously. “I’m sure Douglass will be fine. He’s a modern man.”

“Don’t you know anything about the family you’re attaching our name to?” asked Draco, an innocent expression on his face. “The Greengrasses preserve their witches like flowers.”

“Every family has their particularities,” said Narcissa, her voice light, as if they were discussing the weather. “I don’t pass judgment. They have done right by us.”

“How selfless of them.” he flashed her a cold smile. “I’ll stay here for the next few days, mother, but I can’t promise what will happen next. I’m sure Asta or even Douglass has let you know about their plans for me.” He faked a yawn, stretching his arms over his head. 

His mother’s expression didn’t change. Draco waited for any indication that she knew what he implied, but she simply raised her glass, pointing it towards him. “Whatever it may be,” said Narcissa. “All I’ve wanted was to protect you, sweetheart. The tides are changing and I must follow them,” she smiled. “And you? Oh, Draco, you’ve always been destined for greatness. My duty was to safely set you on that path. And I did.”

Draco stared at his mother. 

There was only sincerity in her eyes. Draco wondered if she knew that her love kept him shackled. 

He didn’t think Narcissa understood that he wouldn’t remain stuck. 

_

His room at the Manor didn’t feel like _his,_ anymore. 

It didn’t take him long after stepping through the door to realize why. So he walked towards the fireplace, grabbed the floo powder, and endured the uncomfortable process of sticking his head into the emerald flames. 

He didn’t expect to find a familiar red-headed witch sitting cross-legged on his couch. _And this is what I get,_ he thought with amusement. _Bloody Granger._

She didn’t seem to be surprised by his appearance. 

They exchanged measuring glances, quietly daring the other to speak first. Draco could have waited her out, just for the pleasure of forcing her to give in, but his petty instincts didn’t overpower his desire to get Granger in his line of sight. 

So he inwardly cursed at himself. And conceded. 

“She-Weasel,” he said in an unimpressed voice. 

“Ferret,” her tone was equally flat. 

He waited for her to continue, but when she didn’t, he grudgingly muttered, “Could you get Granger for me?” 

“I could,” she said in a sing-song voice. “But should I?”

“You do realize you’re in my house, don’t you? I could just pop over and--”

“Oh, sure,” she interrupted, waving her hand dismissively. His chest filled with annoyance, and Draco resisted the urge to snap. “But you seem to be a little tied up, and Hermione’s in the loo, so let’s take this rare opportunity to chat.”

“Save it for someone who needs it, Weasley,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I have better things to do than talk to you, and I’m not breaking up with Granger. This is non-negotiable.”

She just laughed. “I’m not going to try to convince you to break up with her, Malfoy. For Merlin’s sake, I’m insulted you think so little of me.” She winked. “I was simply going to say that if you ever hurt Hermione, that you’ll regret it.”

“I’m more scared of Granger than I am of you.”

“I know,” she smiled dangerously. “But whatever plan she’d cook up to make you suffer would be much more effective if two people were involved, don’t you think?”

Draco’s lips curved up in amusement. “That’d make sense, yes,” he conceded. “And I bet you’re more than eager to make it happen.”

Weasley stood up from the couch and reached for her purse. “I don’t root for my friends to be heartbroken, Malfoy,” she stated. “This is just a backup plan. I hope I won’t need it.”

“You won’t.”

“Oh, look at that, we’re on the same page,” she said cheerfully. “Let Hermione know I had to go home, will you?” 

Draco gave her a sharp nod, and with another mocking glance, Ginny Weasley apparated out of his living room. He didn’t have to wait a second before Granger stepped down the stairs. 

“You were listening the entire time, weren’t you?” he asked, forcing irritation into his voice. Granger saw right through it, and her satisfied smile loosened the knot that he didn’t realize had formed in his chest. “You’re insufferable.”

“It was entertaining,” she shrugged. “I was going to step in if any of you threatened the other bodily harm.”

Even with the distance, being in the same vicinity as Granger made him relax. The leftover exhaustion began to trickle out of his body, and _Merlin,_ he wanted to reach out and pull her body against his. “I miss you.”

Her smile softened. “We saw each other this morning.”

“I know.” His voice dropped an octave. “Listen, Hermione. My father has gotten home and--”

“That was fast.”

“Douglass said he’d get it done,” scoffed Draco. “He probably didn’t want to give me time to bail. Anyway, I’ll be at the Manor for the foreseeable future, I’ll try to come here as much as possible, but my mother’s going to be watchful and--” her face fell. “I’ll try to get information out of her. I don’t think she knows anything, but I’ll see what I can do, alright? I know you want to focus on solving this shite, and--”

“Draco,” she interrupted. “That doesn’t bloody matter. I mean, it does, but not as much as… Are you okay?”

He almost said yes, but Granger’s face was so open -- so expectant. He still couldn’t wrap his head around having her. That she’d forgiven him, when he still hadn’t forgiven himself. He felt the lock he kept around his feelings loosen.

“I’m not,” he muttered. “I don’t think I will be for a while, Hermione, but I can’t let myself think about it now, or I’m not going to be able to pretend. And in this house? You can’t survive _without_ pretending.”

Granger frowned, but didn’t look outwardly startled by his words. “That’s bloody shite.”

He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “That’s how we do things.”

Different emotions crossed Granger’s face, but the one that prevailed set her features in determination. “Do you want me there with you?” Draco shot her a quizzical look. “In your room?” she clarified. “I can stay there and--”

“Granger,” he interrupted, ignoring the bubble of _want_ that swelled as soon as she voiced her suggestion. “That’s not going to happen.”

“I’m offering, Draco.”

 _And I love you for it_ , he thought, not for the first time. “You don’t like this place, Granger. The last time you set foot in this Merlin forsaken house--” the words got stuck in his throat, but he caught the way her face hardened. He didn’t think about that day often, but he faintly tasted bile whenever the memories flashed through his mind.

“If I didn’t think I could do it, I wouldn’t offer it.”

“We both know that’s not true, love.”

“Maybe,” she muttered. “I won’t step into that ballroom, Draco, but I want to be there with you, _for_ you, all the same.”

Granger’s words were resolute, but soft. Her expression didn’t leave him any room to question her conviction. 

“Hermione, love--”

“You get to ask me this, Draco,” she said. “I promise. You _get_ to ask me this.”

Draco’s gut tightened, but he heard everything she didn’t say. 

_She’s asking you to let her in, to open the door all the fucking way_ \-- he was certain of it. 

But when he opened his mouth to respond, he wasn’t sure what his answer would be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long chapter for yall because it's been a while!! You guys have been excited about Hermione's crew finding out about her and Draco's relationship. This is the first of more to come :) I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> I'm in the flow of second-drafting a chapter right now, so I'll answer your comments as soon as I have some time! I read all of them and they always make my day. I'm always thankful. 
> 
> Let me know what you thought of Ginny's reaction and, Lucius' return, ofc <3


	31. Stare and (do we) Forgive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-ed by the fantastic @jeparlepasfrancais

**“Do we simply stare at what’s horrible and forgive it?”**

\- Snow and Dirty Rain, Richard Siken

* * *

**Day 1**

Minzy knew she wasn’t the best servant at Malfoy Manor. She did everything she was told and stayed out of the way of the elder elves, who knew every inch of the mansion like the backs of their hands -- who knew the Mistress’s moods and instinctively understood what to do and when to do it without having it spelled out for them several times. 

Still -- Minzy did her best. She liked how endless the house seemed to be. They were never out of spots to clean and places to discover, and their chambers were comfortable and tidy. The elder elves -- the ones who had been serving the Malfoys longer than Minzy had been born -- complained that she was spoiled, that their service hadn't always been as easy.

They spoke of cruel masters and mistresses that were tight-lipped and unsmiling. They spoke of times when the Manor was filled with dark magic, cloaking the walls and floorboards so thick that they struggled to breathe. They spoke of pale white wizards, wearing masks, who they were told to treat as honored guests and did so without question. 

But Minzy looked at _her_ Master, and she wasn’t quite sure she believed the elders. Her Master had given her neat and fine pillowcases, and he never raised his voice. He was gloomy, most of the time, but he had never been cruel. 

Minzy wasn’t a wise elf, but she _knew_ who her Master was. 

Which made his question even more baffling. “Minzy does not understand, Master.”

Master sighed impatiently. “Minzy, I asked-- you know what, let me rephrase it. Do you know who you are _loyal_ to?” 

“Minzy is loyal to Master.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Which Master?” She opened her mouth to respond, but he continued. “I mean, what is the name of _your_ Master?”

She frowned, having an inkling that she was being set up for failure. “Minzy is loyal to the Malfoy Master,” she said, shifting with uncertainty. He exhaled a long-suffering breath. “There is only one Master Minzy knows.” Her large, round eyes shone up at him. “The Master who has always been here.” 

It seemed to be the right answer, because her Master’s face immediately cleared. Minzy beamed when his lips curled into a smile, feeling pride bubble up in her chest. 

“Great,” he said, bending his head down to meet her line of sight. “That means you _have_ to keep my secret.” 

**Day 2**

Minzy knew what the Master's secret was. 

She was a witch, that much was undeniable. But Minzy knew what _kind_ of a witch she was.

There was a different energy around her, as if the Manor was protesting against her very presence. She had noticed something strange even before the Master had allowed Minzy to know, but it was undeniable when she was in front of her. 

Minzy was not going to say a word. 

“Maybe you should go,” said her Master, pacing in front of his huge canopy bed, where Miss Granger sat with her legs criss-crossed, an amused smile on her face. Minzy dusted an already clean shelf, and pretended not to eavesdrop. “I feel like we’re playing with fire here.”

“We’ve been playing with fire since the first time we kissed,” she said. “I haven’t left your room, and Minzy isn’t going to tell anyone. Why are you so worried?”

Minzy perked up when she heard her name, and she chanced a side-long glance in their direction. Master had stopped pacing, his hands on his hips and tension clearly exuding from his body. “No one would ever guess I’m here, Draco,” said Miss Granger. 

Minzy looked down at her shoes. She wasn’t sure Miss Granger was right. 

“Draco,” she continued, leaving the bed and stepping closer to Master. Her arms reached out for him and Minzy held her breath -- her Master wasn’t one for hugs. She had never seen Mistress give him more than a light kiss on the cheek. “If me being here is causing you more stress--”

“Fuck, Granger, no,” he groaned out loud, and Minzy’s eyes grew wide when he circled his arms around Miss Granger’s waist. _Huh_ , she thought, her cheeks warming with embarrassment. “My mother’s been worse than ever. Having you here is the only bearable thing about this house. I just--”

“Have you seen your father?”

“I’ll see him tomorrow,” he said, in a tone that Minzy was more than familiar with. It was the same one he used to tell mistress he was going to see Miss Greengrass, when Minzy knew he was actually going to Mister Nott’s home. Minzy almost giggled when Miss Granger gave him a flat, unimpressed look. “Bloody hell. Alright, I’m going to see him _eventually._ ” 

“You can’t keep avoiding him, Draco, the way your mother is making it seem--”

“If my mother was right, he would’ve been dead months ago. She’s probably killed him at least a hundred times in her mind, at this point,” he said curtly. “Do you know how many flowers she’s brought this week? We have a garden, Granger, a bloody huge one at that, but everywhere I look there’s delivery owls dropping off basket after basket. The woman’s gone bonkers, the only thing she’s buying are bloody chrysanthemums, which are the dreariest flowers on Salazar’s earth, and these huge ugly wreaths that smell like death. I won’t be surprised if she shows up with a casket. She’s already preparing for the funeral--”

“Maybe she’s--”

“If I have to look at one more fucking flower basket, I’m going to--” His voice broke with frustration, and Minzy’s head snapped in alarm. Her magic flared protectively as she struggled to think of what she could do to help him. His voice carried an affliction she had never heard before. 

But then she looked at Miss Granger, who was staring up at master with determination. The same magic that wanted to break out of Minzy’s skin seemed to ooze out of hers -- it was different, but similarly protective. 

_Huh_ , thought Minzy, watching the witch stand up on her tiptoes and press a kiss to Master's cheek, whose hands tightened around her waist. 

“It’s okay,” she whispered, and Master's head fell on her shoulder. From over it, Miss Granger’s eyes darted towards Minzy, who jerked up, instantly wanting to bow in apology.

But kindness flashed across Miss Granger’s face, and she nodded once, her message clear -- _I got this,_ she said. 

_Hmm,_ thought Minzy. _Maybe Miss Granger’s alright._

**Day 3**

“Hey, Minzy,” Minzy sat the silver tray on the small table in the Master's bedroom before standing up in attention. “Do you have a minute?” 

“Master told Minzy that my duty was to serve Miss Granger during her stay,” she replied dutifully. “Minzy has more than one minute.” 

Miss Granger chuckled, humour dancing in her eyes. “Well, I wouldn’t want to distract you, if you had other things to do,” she said, reaching for the tall glass of pumpkin juice. “You can call me, Hermione, please.”

She balked. “Minzy cannot--”

“Please, it would make me feel more comfortable,” she said calmly. After a moment, Minzy gave her a shy smile and nodded. “Will you sit, please? I’d like to talk to you.” She opened her mouth to protest, but Miss Granger’s look cut her off. 

Minzy sat in the chair across from her, unsure if she actually _liked_ the witch, even if her Master seemed to be silly over her. “So, Minzy,” said Miss Granger, picking up a knife and spreading butter on a piece of bread. “Do you like working here? I mean, I know you won’t tell me otherwise, but Draco’s a good boss, isn’t he? He’s a nice person,” Minzy gave her an obedient nod, unsure if she was looking for an actual response. “He hasn’t been here much, lately. You see, Minzy, he might’ve missed things, important things, that could’ve happened in his absence--” She nibbled on the bread and looked pointendly at Minzy. “Has he?” 

“Minzy does not know what _Hermione_ is asking of her,” she replied, averting her gaze. Minzy wasn’t an wise elf, but she wasn’t that stupid. 

Miss Granger smiled. “Do you know the Greengrasses?”

Minzy paused, considering her response. Her Master’s words ran through her mind in a loop -- _you’re loyal to me, Minzy, and that means no one can know Hermione Granger’s here. And loyal to her, too, and you will serve her as you’d serve me_.

Minzy sighed inwardly, darting her eyes towards Miss Granger, who seemed to be struggling not to press her for answers. “I know Master talks to Mistress about Miss Greengrass all the time, but Master doesn’t actually see her much,” she said quietly. “Master tells Minzy things, but Mistress does not.”

“But you see a lot, don’t you?” She tilted her head to the side. “I saw how observant you were, yesterday. You hear and you see, even if she doesn’t quite see you.”

“Minzy has eyes and ears, Miss Granger,” she stated, utterly confused as to what the witch meant. “Minzy can’t help but hear and see.” 

“Okay, then,” she said, giving her a slow smile. “And what have you heard and seen, regarding your Mistress, when your Master wasn’t here?” 

_‘You’re only loyal to me, so you’re only loyal to her, and you will serve her as you’d serve me--_

Master had said that. Minzy remembered it quite clearly. 

She looked up into Miss Granger’s attentive stare. “Mistress is sad a lot, sometimes she cries, but not a lot,” she said, thinking of how Mistress quietly sniffed and dabbed her eyes with the embroidered cloths she made the elves sew. Other times, she walked through the halls of the Manor, over and over again, finding no one but the elves, no matter how hard she looked. “Mistress gets visits, sometimes, and she leaves the Manor, but only shortly.” 

“Who visits her?”

Minzy searched her brain for answers, suddenly feeling nervous. “Mistress sees Mister Stewart a lot, and Mrs. Greengrass too, but not a lot,” she said, noting the way Miss Granger seemed to perk up at that. “Mrs. Greengrass does not talk to Minzy.”

“But what does she talk to your Mistress about, when she is here?” she asked, finishing her food and sipping more of the juice. “You’re a great cook, Minzy.” 

“All elves cook. Minzy is an elf,” she shrugged. “Minzy has heard Mrs. Greengrass talk about Miss Greengrass becoming Master’s wife.” She gestured for Minzy to continue. “They talk about the glory days to come, sometimes. But not a lot.”

“What do they say, about the glory days?”

Minzy felt her stomach churn, and Miss Granger seemed to notice, because a tiny crease appeared on her forehead. “They say that when these days arrive, the mudbloods won’t steal their magic anymore. They say Master and Miss Greengrass will help them rise--” She saw Miss Granger’s face fall, and pushed past the feeling of having done something wrong. She was only loyal to Master, and Miss Granger had asked her to speak. “They say Harry Potter doesn’t realize he’s helping get them there.”

“They say that?”

Minzy nodded. “And they laugh.”

**Day 4**

Minzy popped into the room as soundlessly as she could. Master Malfoy, the older one, was seating in front of the floor-to-ceiling window -- he was weaker, Minzy noticed, and seemed to be getting weaker by the day. Soon, he’d be like the ghosts that she remembered seeing once or twice: there, but not fully.

Minzy didn’t usually serve him. Mistress trusted only the older elves, who said Minzy was too flimsy, too clumsy, and too cheeky to do the job. Minzy was only allowed in the room when he was already asleep and would not hear how loud she was, or see how flimsy and clumsy and cheeky she could be. 

But that morning, Mistress had sent Minzy there, making her rush to attend to Miss Granger, before following her orders.

It was the first time her Master was also in the room, sitting in the other chair. 

“Hey, Minzy,” greeted her Master, watching her set the tea tray on the small coffee table in front of them. “Could you clean up the room a bit, too? It smells awful in here.” 

“Minzy will clean, Master,” she said hurriedly, almost knocking over a crystal flower vase in her haste. “Minzy apologizes, Master.”

The older Master released a low and dry chuckle -- it sounded mean, to Minzy’s ears, as cold as a laugh could sound. “Did you get this elf the same place we got bloody Dobby? I thought we got rid of the useless batch with him.” 

Master looked at Minzy and rolled his eyes before turning to his father. “We didn’t exactly get rid of Dobby. He got rid of us.”

“You know bloody well that manky, ungrateful excuse of an elf was brainwashed by Harry Potter, Draco,” said the elder Master. “He was awarded the honor to serve the Malfoys, and threw it away. He deserved what he got.”

Minzy scurried away, but her eyes were glued to father and son. She started to smooth the messy duvet, noting the way her Master’s grip tightened in the chair’s arm. “Do you remember how he died, after? What he did, before he got hurt?”

“What? By being the bloody martyr he’d always wanted to be? What do you want me to say, son? If we had punished him how he deserved to be punished, beaten some proper obedience into him, we would’ve kept Potter. I regret that,” he spat. “That’s a mistake I’ll admit to. Keep an eye on that elf of yours, and be better than I was.”

Her Master’s jaw clenched, and Minzy pretended to fluff one of the pillows. “That’s the only thing you regret, father? Not whipping bloody Dobby enough?”

“I did what I had to, Draco,” he said, turning to Master with a grim expression. He seemed to struggle to hold the gaze, but there was something sharp behind his eyes. “I’ll die soon, but I’ve abided by my duty. I’ve fought for my Lord until his last breath. I’ve done everything I could to uphold this family’s values. I did my duty, and I don’t regret a thing about that. Not one, my son.”

Her Master looked at his father as if seeing him for the first time. “I’m trying very hard not to have any regrets either, father,” he murmured, standing up from the chair. 

“Are you leaving already?”

He paused, his eyes travelling over his father’s face. “I have no reason to stay,” he said, walking towards the door. “Minzy, bring a glass of water to my room when you’re finished here. _Please_.” It came out pointed and intentional, and Minzy pretended not to notice the angry look his father gave him. 

“Minzy will, Master,” she answered, bending her head to hide her smile. 

_

When Minzy walked into her Master’s room, he was lying face-down on the bed, his head buried into a pillow, and Miss Granger was rubbing her hand up and down his back. When she noticed her, she held a finger to her lips, and Minzy nodded, trying to be as soundless as she could for the second time that day.

“He hasn’t changed a bit, Hermione,” said her Master, his voice sounded strangely thick, in a way Minzy had never heard from him. It didn’t surprise her -- she didn’t know her Master as well, when Miss Granger was around. “He sat in that fucking chair, looking like he’s rotting from the inside out, and I knew he hadn’t changed a bit. I didn’t expect him to, but fuck.”

“I know, sweetheart,” she said with soft eyes. Minzy placed the jar of cold water by the bedside table, along with two glasses. 

“I don’t want to be like him,” he said quietly. “I’m so fucking angry that he raised me to be just like him. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard for me to do the right thing, all the time, maybe I just--”

Minzy looked away, and quickly moved towards the door. As she turned the doorknob and slipped out of the room, she heard Miss Granger whisper, “Draco, you could never be anything like him.”

Minzy closed the door behind her, smiling to herself.

_

**Day 5**

Draco was the last person to see Lucius alive. 

He didn’t mean to be. He had spent most of the week avoiding his father, preferring to help Narcissa with the funeral arrangements, ignoring the prickling feeling in his chest, thinking how odd it was to choose a casket when his father’s body hadn’t yet begun to turn cold. 

He knew that a Malfoy’s passing wasn’t an ordinary affair -- ordinarily, the task of making arrangements fell on the Mistress of the House. That his father was alive and present to offer his opinion on every detail was a privilege not many had. 

Everything would be how he wanted. And what he wanted, he’d have. Draco pretended not to see how tired his mother looked, how much older. How much older he looked, too.

When he could afford to, he snuck back into his room and wrapped himself around Granger. They didn’t talk, most of the time -- she never complained about being bored, even when he knew she must be. She didn’t talk about the toll it took on her, to be trapped in a small room in this place, and he hated himself for not having the strength to tell her to go. 

But he couldn’t avoid his father forever; so when his mother pressed him to visit, he did. It didn’t take ten minutes inside the room before his anger snapped tightly underneath his skin.

He fled the room and went to Granger and swore that he wouldn’t return. 

But his mother asked again. And -- _I should learn how to fucking say no_. 

His father was lying in bed when he arrived, but his eyes snapped towards Draco the second he entered the room. “You look well in your old age, father,” he muttered, sitting in the armchair beside the bed, knowing it must be where his mother had been sleeping the past week. “How the mighty have fallen.”

“Ah, my son,” said Lucius, an ugly cough tearing from his throat. “Here to kick me while I’m down?”

“You always told me there’s no harm in kicking someone who’s already down. It’s not like they can fight back, right?” said Draco, watching his father blink up at him. “You’re as down as it gets, aren’t you?”

A tide of feelings washed over him. Mostly, he felt pity, and, to a lesser extent, the desire for things to be different. It was a stray flicker of yearning that fought to stay alight, but died down the more time passed.

“You don’t kick family down, Draco,” said his father weakly. 

“No?” he said, looking away. “You’ve kicked me down before, father. Plenty of times. You’ve kicked mother down, more times than you did me.”

“I’ve never--”

“You don’t get to lie to me now,” said Draco, forcing himself to look at his father. He wished his anger could carry him, but it was fading, too. “I won’t believe you. I’m not seventeen, anymore.”

Lucius frowned. “I never lied to you.” 

“You lie as easily as you breathe,” he muttered. “Or is it not a lie when you don’t realize it? I don’t care. I lie easily too, you know? Another thing my bloodline passed on to me.”

His father licked his chapped lips, and murmured, “Maybe you should call your mother.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t,” said Draco. “Mother needs a bloody break, you’re dying and bloody killing her too, and as always, I’m the one who has to keep this boat from sinking.”

“That’s the least you can do after you embarrassed this family in front of the Dark Lord, Draco,” said Lucius, his voice suddenly turning harsh. “You can hate me all you want, but I’ve given you all of the tools you needed. You should be mad at yourself for failing, not me. It’s not my fault you were too bloody weak when push came to shove.”

The words twisted his guts, and Draco’s mind flashed to _\--_

Walking up to Platform Nine-and-three-quarters, and whispering in his ear, _do_ not _associate with those inferior creatures, boy. Show the excellence that is your birthright. That's what I've taught you to do. It’s not a choice._

Getting called into his father’s study, the summer before the Dark Lord’s return, listening to him say, _the times are coming for us to rise, boy. Don’t look at me like that. There’s no room for you to show fear. You don’t have a choice._

Going to Borgin and Burkes for the Vanishing Cabinet, and hesitating outside the shop, before hearing his father’s voice like a ghost, _don’t be a fool, boy. You can’t outrun your destiny. You can’t cheat fate. When did I say this was a choice?_

“Weak?” scoffed Draco. He opened his mouth, but there was nothing but scorn in his father's eyes. He was an angry man. Even when he was days away from death, there was nothing left in him but bitterness and a lifetime of falling short. 

Draco had been angry, too -- for long, too long. It had taken him even longer to understand that for the Malfoys, anger was the final nail in the bloody coffin. 

He had no use for it. 

So instead, he bent forward in the chair, lowering his head until his mouth almost brushed his father’s ear. “I can handle being weak, and I can handle failure, father,” he said quietly. “But I can’t handle being this family’s definition of strong. That will end with me.” Lucius stared back at him with a blank expression. Then, slowly, a crease formed between his eyebrows. 

At first, Draco thought he looked confused, like maybe he hadn’t fully absorbed his words. 

But it wasn’t about that. 

His father had heard him perfectly. 

The thing was -- Lucius was looking at Draco like he had become a stranger. Like he didn’t recognize who sat in front of him. 

_Merlin_ , he realized, something akin to awe feeling his chest. _I was never going to be like you_. 

And then Draco saw his lips set into a sneer. It was predictable, and pitiful, and years past being disappointing. 

So he stood up from the chair, not giving Lucius a chance to speak. 

His father could deal with his need to hurt him. 

Draco had no use for it.

_

**Day 6**

The war had made funerals a normal, unremarkable occurrence, but Draco had only been to one family funeral in his life. 

He had been too young to remember more than hazy details about his grandfather’s burial, but he had a clear memory of the walk -- 

His mother's fingers had been wrapped around his tiny hand, and the two of them had shuffled slowly towards the Manor’s clearing. Before them, a green and silver coffin had floated in the air, guiding their path. His father had been a couple of steps ahead, mute and morose, and behind them trailed a small number of guests, silent and dressed in black.

It was eerily familiar -- the coffin looked exactly the same, and while there were more people, they all carried arrangements of flowers that seemed to be par for the course: dreary chrysanthemums and grisly-looking wreaths. 

His father was only a couple of steps ahead, too, if you overlooked one glaring detail. 

His mother spoke, because she wanted to, and Draco spoke, because he had to. Sooner than he had expected, everyone was raising their hands, spells leaving their lips like the chorus of a well-rehearsed lullaby. Green and white lines shot from each wand and circled the coffin like sparkling vortexes of light. 

Pretty to watch, in a truly morbid way. 

Prettier than Draco had expected it to be.

_

“Oi, mate,” said Theo, looking strangely solemn. Most people had enough tact not to linger after the obligatory elf-served tea and biscuits, but Theo and Daphne had stayed longer than most, talking quietly among themselves while the Manor’s largest parlour slowly emptied. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” shrugged Draco, scanning the room for his mother. “Have you seen my mother?”

“She offered to walk Daphne to the floo,” said Theo. “Sucks that Granger can’t be here.”

“Granger’s here,” he muttered. “She’s been here for the past week, but--” He paused. As soon as he was able to sneak back into his room, he’d send her home. He didn’t have a plausible excuse to keep her there, anymore, and now that his mother wouldn’t have his father to dote on, she’d be paying closer attention. “Did you talk to Douglass?”

Theo frowned. Typically, he’d leap on the rather unsubtle change in subject, refusing to let go until Draco grew tired of evading his questions and left, or grudgingly answered. Now, he only smoothed his expression. “I’ve got a meeting with him next week, but I’ve been doing some digging around. Maybe if Granger’s here, I could--”

Draco snorted. “You won’t be able to get past the amount of wards I’ve put in that room,” he said. “Go to the flat tomorrow evening, Granger will be there.”

“Mate,” sighed Theo. “Don’t you want to talk about why we’re here, in the first place?”

“Is there a Fatherless Tossers club you’re trying to initiate me into, Nott?” He rolled his eyes. “I’m fine, you can go now.”

“Draco--”

“Go home, Theo,” he said firmly, and Theo scowled before sighing dejectedly. 

“You’re going to miss me when I’m gone,” he sang, sounding more like his irritating self. “The number of times I’ve thought of breaking up with you--”

“I already have a girlfriend,” said Draco, gesturing to the door. “And she’s already too much for me to handle. Go find someone else to pester.”

“ _Fine_ ,” he snickered, then he lifted a hand to pat Draco in the shoulder. There was an awkwardness around them that hadn’t been there before. Theo had grieved someone he hated, too. “We can call a meeting of the Fatherless Tossers club whenever you’re up to it, mate. I heard it involves cigars and drinking copiously,” he said offhandedly, already walking out of the room. “Just owl, or whatever.”

“I never liked clubs.”

“Too bad you can’t get out of this one. Lifelong membership, I’ve heard,” said Theo, waving two fingers in salute before disappearing down the hall. 

Draco looked around the room. It was large and empty. There was nothing else for him, there. He needed to send Granger home, and he needed to go home, too. 

“You look distracted,” said his mother, walking into the parlour. She had changed, shedding the long black, shapeless dress and coat that she’d worn most of the day. Now, she wore one of her nicer green robes, and her hair fell around her face. “You’ve been distracted this past week. I’ve been wondering why.”

“Do you need something, mother?” said Draco, her tone grating at him. “You wanted me here for the week, so I stayed. You wanted me to make an effort with father, so I did. You wanted help with the funeral, so I helped. You wanted me to start a courtship with bloody Daphne Greengrass, so I did. Please, don’t be shy now”

Narcissa smiled. “I want you not to lie to me, Draco.”

An uncomfortable feeling twisted his guts, but he kept the emotion out of his eyes. “We’ve never expected that from each other.”

“Maybe that needs to change now, that your father is gone,” she said. “Maybe I’ve trusted you too much, Draco, because--”

“Excuse me?”

“I watched you and Daphne today,” she said, stepping closer to him. “She pecked you on the cheek, once, when she arrived, and she didn’t touch you a single time after that.”

He gave her a blank look. “You wanted me to snog my fiancée during my father’s funeral?”

“I wanted you to give me one reason why I shouldn’t care that you’ve brought a mudblood into my house,” she snapped, scoffing when his face faltered. “You think I wouldn’t notice? This is my home, Draco. Every inch of this Manor was built and warded to protect this family. I know when someone who shouldn’t be here gets anywhere near this house.”

“It’s a shame that didn’t seem to work when this house became a hotel for the Wizarding World’s finest lunatics,” he fired back, feeling a pang of resentment. “I’m not going to apologize--”

“You _will_ ,” she said firmly. “I have been too lenient with you, Draco. I’d understand if this were a late rebellious phase, if you needed to explore before you got married, I’d even understand if this was your way of sticking it to your father, no matter how insulting it is that you chose to do that during his last week. But you didn’t even bother to pretend you haven’t been lying about Daphne for the past few months, so you will apologize, and I will not be lenient anymore,” she hissed, her face turning crimson and her chest heaving. Draco saw desperation in her eyes, and he--

There was nothing there for him, any more. “I thought you said not to lie.” There was no anger in his words. “You knew I didn’t want to court Daphne. I made that clear. If you lied to yourself so you wouldn’t feel bad for selling me out over and over again, that’s on you, not me. I only did what you asked of me--”

“That’s not true--”

“It is,” he said loudly, voice echoing across the room. “Your husband just died and you’re more concerned that your plan for my future’s in danger. Father was hanging on for dear life, yesterday, and the only thing he cared about was making sure I knew I failed his precious Dark Lord’s mission. You’re more alike than you think, and there’s something deeply wrong with this family.”

“I’ve only protected you--”

“Thank you. For how long will I be paying you back for that?” He gave a humourless laugh, his muscles tightening. “Father’s not here anymore and you’re still trying to keep me shackled.”

“That’s what this is?” she said in a patronizing voice. “You think defiling your bloodline is going to get you out of your duties? Don’t be daft, Draco.”

He met her gaze defiantly, and Narcissa seemed to be taken aback by whatever she found in his eyes. “What I have with Granger isn’t about you, or father--”

“Hermione Granger?” she bellowed, her face hardening. Draco didn’t flinch at the volume of her voice, but he cursed his own stupidity. “Draco, you must be out of your mind--”

“Does it matter who it is?” he exclaimed. “This _isn’t_ about her. This has been coming for a very long time, and I’m done holding myself back. Would you rather have me in your life, or push me right out of it?”

“Draco Malfoy, if you choose a mudblood over your family--”

He shook his head. “I’m not choosing.” He suddenly felt the full weight of his exhaustion, but he kept his posture straight, unwilling to falter. “You are.”

There was a part of him - stubborn and naïve, that wanted her to concede. 

They had been holding opposite ends of a rope for the longest time -- his mother kept pulling, and Draco kept letting her. 

He wanted her to understand she had to let go, because he wouldn’t let his end of the rope slide from his hands. 

He would let it go. 

“And do _not_ call her a mudblood,” he commanded, brushing past her and into the hallway. She didn’t call after him, and Draco didn’t expect her to. 

Instead, a hollow silence followed him as he walked towards his room. A calmness, too, because he knew there was nothing chasing after him. 

With each step he took, the fist that he thought was permanently wrapped around his throat loosened its hold, one finger at a time. 

He stood in the doorway, finding her curled on an armchair, constant and steady and utterly rock solid. “Hey, Granger.”

He didn’t bother to close the door. 

“Hi,” she said, looking up at him. 

He smiled. “Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello lovelies! i'm trying to experiment a bit while staying within the bounds of my writing style and what i'm trying to accomplish with this story, and this chapter is a bit of that; i had fun with it, so i hope you like how it went :) another arc has come to a close, and i feel like we're setting up the final stage! I'm hoping to finish up the story in the near future so I can go back to giving you guys updates twice a week.
> 
> Thank you so much for all the feedback, can't wait to hear your thoughts on this one ;)


	32. A Prayer with No Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter, nor this story, would exist without @jeparlepasfrancais

“Don't make a noise, don't leave the room until I come back from the dead for you. **I will come back from the dead for you.** This could be a city. This could be a graveyard. This could be the basket of a big balloon. (...) **y** **ou're trying not to tell him that you love him,** and you're trying to choke down the feeling, and you're trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, **like a prayer for which no words exist.** ” You are Jeff, Richard Siken

* * *

The chandelier was jet black. Its metal frame was hanging loose from an almost imperceptible crack that tore through the plaster ceiling like a new scar. She was cold all over, from the tip of her shoes to her head laying against the dark carpet, and her blood was flowing to her skull in a rush that blurred her vision. There was nothing but silence around her. _I didn’t take anything, please, I didn’t, I didn’t_ \-- the words didn't leave her mouth, getting lost in the ugly cough that ripped through her throat instead.

She struggled to move her fingers, her thumb skin raw, leaving stains over the bone-white duvet -- _no carpet_ , she tried to croak out, _no carpet_ , just a fucking duvet, a stray thought that flickered through her brain and got lost in the sea of -- _I didn’t take anything, I didn’t, please. But you won’t. You are not going to take this away from --_

 _No carpet, no carpet, a fucking duvet_ , she tried to stand up, her limbs cracking painfully, her raw thumb oozing blood -- not dirty, thick brown mud, just red blood that spilled out of her veins and left her lightheaded. She needed to tell them she didn’t take anything but there wasn’t anyone in the room -- 

She couldn’t look for them because she was alone in the room and the boy she loved was lost in the chaos, shackled and stuck and with his feet rooted to the ground. Nothing made sense in her head, but they were chasing him like wolves preying on deer--

The room was silent and the chandelier was jet black and hanging loose. The crack in the plaster ceiling was a sliver of a chasm that got larger the longer she stared at it. It’d just as soon swallow her whole. 

Then she was standing, dizzy and faded with dark carpet under her feet. Nothing made sense in her head but the boy she loved wasn’t in the room. 

Her thumb was raw, smearing the bone-white duvet like a booming roar of _you’re not going to take this away from me. You won’t, you won’t. You’re not going to --_ but everyone was silent. 

Everyone was silent but her.

Then the crack in the plaster ceiling turned into a sliver of light that sounded too much like-- it sounded too much like--

*

“ _Granger_.”

“I’m alright,” she gasped, jolting forward in the bed. Her palm flew to her racing heart, and Hermione pressed her eyelids tightly, her words coming out in a whimper, “ _Night, gods, unbowed, unafraid, captain--"_ She could feel Draco’s eyes on her, but she kept her own closed, repeating, “ _Night, gods, unbowed, unafraid, captain_ \--”

She pushed her palm harder against her chest, her lips mouthing word after word--

“Night, gods, unbowed, unafraid, captain.” Voice soft with sleep but lacking the shakiness her own carried. “Nights, gods, unbowed, unafraid, captain.” Louder and firmer, until her eyes flew open, landing straight on his bottomless gaze. 

Her palm fell from her chest as she sought his hand, wrapping her fingers around his and falling back against the mattress, her breaths finally beginning to even out. “Merlin, I’m sorry,” she choked out. “You were sleeping well for the first night in a week.”

“It’s not like you can control a bloody nightmare, Granger,” said Draco, lying beside her and scooting closer, until his face was snug against her shoulder. He planted a kiss on the exposed skin, and she exhaled deeply. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t even remember it. I just knew it was bad.”

“Probably my fault,” he said roughly. “I kept you in that bloody place for a week--”

“Don’t go there.”

“You can admit when something isn’t a good idea, Granger,” he fired back. “I knew it wasn’t, and I still agreed to let you stay there. That’s on me.”

Hermione didn’t answer. It was her first nightmare in such a long time, her body wasn’t used to its shock waves anymore. Draco’s warm presence was enough to ground her, but most of the time, healing felt too much like a dance: one-step-forward, two-steps-back. 

She still hadn’t gotten used to its rhythm, no matter how much she pretended to. 

“Thank you for saying it back to me,” she said at last. “You sounded just like my dad.”

He lifted his head from her shoulder. “Your father?”

“He used to tell me war stories when I was little,” she whispered, her limbs finally relaxing. “They had happy endings, of course. They were all about fearless and glorified heroes. He’d tell me I was going to be just like them.”

Draco hummed under his breath. “Maybe you’re distantly connected to the Trelawneys. Your father seemed to have a knack for Divination.”

Hermione scoffed. “ _Please_ , if I had any connection to a Wizarding family, which I doubt, it wouldn’t be the Trelawneys.” Her haughty tone earned her a chuckle. “When I got a little older, my dad switched from stories to poems. _Invictus_ by William Erenest Henley was his favorite. It’s supposed to be about courage and resilience when faced with trouble. I didn’t like it at first, but after the war--”

“It grounded you.”

She nodded, meeting his gaze. “He used to recite it to me when I got overwhelmed. Muggle school wasn’t easy for a girl who kept doing strange and inexplicable stuff.” She smiled at the memory. Those heartaches seemed a lifetime away. “Later, I thought dad had fooled me. He never told me how heroes lived after winning their battles. But now, I think that’s why he insisted on this poem. I think he was trying to tell me that I’m the one in control of my fate, no matter what’s thrown my way. I think he somehow knew I’d need it.”

Draco smirked. “And you’re sure there’s no connection to Trelawney? I don’t know, Granger. It sounds a lot like Divination to me.”

With a scowl, she snatched her pillow and flung it in his direction. Draco, the former Quidditch seeker, didn’t even blink before catching it. A peal of laughter left his lips, and her chest felt in danger of cracking open. _I love you_ almost slipped past her tongue, but it got stuck halfway through. 

“I like it,” Draco put the pillow back in its place and paused, taking a moment to consider his words. “The message of it, I mean. I want to own my own fate, too.”

“You already do,” she said firmly. “The way you stood up against your mother?” She chuckled. “I wasn’t there to see it, but Draco-- I know you were beautiful out there.”

_

The Serpent Wire’s headquarters were exactly what she’d expected, yet somehow completely different. 

For starters, it was the sole commercial building in the edges of a residential Muggle neighbourhood. Its facade resembled an ordinary, rather lifeless shop. The large intercom by the front door didn’t have any buttons she could press, but it shone brightly when Hermione inched closer to it, radiating a vibrating red color that just as soon turned green. For a second, she pictured an irritated Fat Lady asking her for a ludicrous password.

Hermione heard the telling _click_ of an unlocked door, and she looked around sheepishly before pushing it open. She had barely stepped into the room before the door roughly hit the doorframe -- she turned around, frowning in confusion as several large locks loudly snapped shut. 

“Could’ve just warded the place,” she grumbled under her breath, scanning the empty room. Her gaze fell on the magazine’s emblem, painted on the wall directly across from her. It was a golden serpent, its tail looping towards the floor, with its skin inlaid with a myriad of tiny emerald eyes; they fluttered in her direction, tracking her every move. 

The exquisite detail called out to her, and Hermione subconsciously moved closer, reaching out to run her fingers along the extent of the emblem. The serpent shifted away from her, but the pressure of her touch was enough for the wall to give in. Her head whirled as she was pulled through the barrier, the telling tingle of strong magic sending goosebumps all over her skin. 

When her vision cleared, she noticed a tall man smirking at her. 

“Long time no see,” murmured Zabini, his voice low and husky. Behind him, a small group of people chatted among themselves. They looked curiously in their direction, but had the decency to not stare openly when they realized who she was. “Granger?”

“You certainly have a flair for dramatics,” she said, looking around the room. “Why so many locks on the door?”

“Every place needs a bit of a flourish,” he smiled, tilting his head to the side with an air of subtle mockery. There was a certain charm to Zabini that Hermione had never noticed at Hogwarts -- it was something about how he grinned openly at her, his eyes shimmering with a twinge of darkness. He wore a white turtle-neck that would look pretentious in anyone else, but seemed to fit him just right. _Merlin_ , Hermione hoped she was never in a room with him and Theo. “Welcome to _The Serpent Wire_. I heard you’re a fan.”

“I follow your magazine, if that’s what you mean by that,” she said hesitantly. 

“If you say so,” smiled Zabini. “Please, come with me, Granger,” Hermione began to follow him down the hall, trying to hide her eagerness. She hungrily surveyed her surroundings -- she was surprised to notice that the place was rather small, a sort of undisturbed quietness hanging over the room. It held a combination of purpose and tranquility she’d never seen before. 

Her fascination intensified when she noticed a row of Muggle printers in the far corner of the room, all of which spat out paper at an unnatural pace. Zabini followed her gaze. “I’ve got an appreciation for effective machinery.”

“It's been tweaked with,” muttered Hermione, almost absent-mindedly. She catalogued the way the printers seemed to glow, her mind trying to puzzle it out. “It’s incredibly difficult to combine magic and Muggle technology. How did you do it?”

“I wouldn’t say it’s difficult. I see it as an unexplored art,” said Zabini, pulling the door to his office open for her. “The printers are a recent addition to our headquarters. I’ve been studying the spellwork for a long time, but it took quite a few--” He shot her a look. “-- _favors_ to get the Wizengamot’s permission to work on them.”

Hermione’s ears perked at that, and she sat down, not sparing his office a look. “I didn’t know you had to get permission from the Wizengamot for something so basic. That’s insane.”

Zabini spun in his chair, considering her. “There are laws banning us from incorporating Muggle technology in our everyday lives,” he said after a moment. “If you know the right people, you could give it a try, but being caught red-handed means time in Azkaban. Why do you think we can’t get a telly to work in a Wizarding home? Which sucks--”

“You watch the telly?” she asked incredulously. “I thought--”

“That I’m a bigoted Slytherin?”

“Give me some credit, Zabini,” she said, waving him off. She almost wanted to tell him how many Slytherins she interacted with on a daily basis. It’d wipe the condescending smirk right off his face. “I don’t know your personal beliefs, nor do I care, but your magazine has been an impartial source of information, and that means something.” She almost snickered at the naked pride flashing across his face. “Still, even progressive wizards have only surface-level knowledge about the Muggle world,” she said, thinking of Arthur Weasley’s fixation on exotic Muggle contraptions. “It’s easier to accept something when tolerance doesn’t cost you anything.”

“Does that bother you?” he said airily. “Do you think people merely pretend to be welcoming to Muggleborns?”

Hermione let out a dry laugh. Zabini’s words might have sounded casual, but she could hear the purpose behind them. “I didn’t say that. I think most people don’t actively concern themselves with someone’s blood status, but they also don’t make an effort to understand what it means to be Muggleborn. Blood supremacists do. All they do is think about race. They spend inordinate amounts of time fantasizing ways to isolate and eliminate Muggleborns from the Wizarding world. How lucky for them that they hold such high positions in government. If the system didn’t privilege them, a law like that wouldn’t exist.”

“The system?”

“The Ministry and Wizengamot. Don’t play dumb,” she scoffed. 

“Not all of them are connected to pureblood ideology,” he said. “Hestia Jones is there, and a few Order of the Phoenix--”

“They’re a minority,” she interrupted. “It’s a rigged system. There’s nothing in the _Statue of Secrecy_ prohibiting wizards from exploring Muggle technology. So why did the Wizengamot claim that it does?”

“Well, only as of recent,” he clarified. “After the first war, most people avoided connections to the Muggle world out of fear of The Dark Lord’s return. A lot of Death-Eaters had gotten out unscathed. After the Battle of Hogwarts, people felt safe enough to explore, and that’s when the Wizengamot started enforcing the Statute of Secrecy against Muggle technology. Maybe they didn’t before because they didn’t have to.”

“But _why_ would they have to at all?” said Hermione. “Do you know who’s been pushing for enforcement?”

Zabini balked at that. “Not sure, but I know Rowle is about to make an announcement about it. Now they’re banning any Muggle devices in a Wizarding home, whatsoever. It’s going to run in our next edition, so that’s some privileged information you're getting."

 _Merlin_ , thought Hermione. _Douglass isn’t wasting any time._ “Don’t you think that’s racist?” she said, giving him a pointed look. “There’s no evidence that Muggle devices cause any harm to wizards. And Muggleborns make up what, roughly thirty percent of Wizarding Britain? Half-bloods make up an even larger percentage. So now the majority of our population has to give up a harmless part of their culture based on the whims of the Wizengamot?”

“Is that your official statement?”

“Excuse me?” she frowned. “Are you recording me?”

“I’ve been recording you since you stepped through the wall,” said Zabini, waving his wand to reveal a steadily growing stack of parchments on his desk. “ _Hermione Granger points out blood prejudice in the Wizengamot’s administration._ Does that sound right?”

Hermione eyes flickered from the parchment to Zabini, and she sat up straighter in her chair. “No,” she said, and Zabini looked at her expectantly. “It’s deeper than that. Blood prejudice is an intrinsic part of the Ministry as a government. The Wizengamot is built to target Muggleborns en masse, and it does it so subtly we don’t realize it,” she said in one long breath. “The Wizarding World’s supposed to be recovering from a race-fueled war, but we’re not actually progressing past it. If you’re wondering why, look up who’s holding a Wizengamot chair. Ask yourself what _they_ want out of it.”

Zabini cocked his head, his lips curving into a smile. “And how does that relate to your support of Hestia Jones?”

_

“Welcome, boys,” said a sultry voice. A tall witch was standing behind the reception desk, her lips lifting into a mischievous smile. “The gentlemen were just asking about you.”

“There’s still time to turn around and grab a pitcher of Butterbeer at _The Three Broomsticks_ ,” said Theo from the corner of his mouth, giving the witch his most charming grin. Draco pressed the tip of his wand to the guest book she was holding. Across the top of it was engraved _Gentlemen of the Twenty-Eight;_ directly below, the crests of attending families were lined up side by side. His signature traced a path below _Sanctimonia Vincet Semper_ , but just as swiftly it disappeared, and the Malfoy crest burnt into a faint mark, imperceptible to anyone who came across the book. Theo did the same. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

The witch smiled, moving to open the door behind her. Draco barely spared her a glance, stepping into the empty hallway and muttering, “We need to get information for Granger. She was still with Blaise by the time I left, she can’t keep doing everything--”

“Excuse me?” exclaimed Theo. “I’m doing _a lot._ I cancelled a date to come here. Why didn’t you ask your soon to be daddy-in-law to push back the date--”

“Oh, sure,” he dead-panned. “I should’ve told him that tonight didn’t work. Maybe Thursday instead? That is, if you’re not planning a shag then.”

Theo paused when they were about to turn the corner into the restaurant, shooting Draco an ear-to-ear grin. “Well, you wouldn’t say _that._ But your actual father just died. As the Fatherless Tossers Club guidebook explains, you can milk that for all its worth.” 

Draco gave him a flat look, wondering if it was worth coming up with a response. He knocked his shoulder forcibly against Theo’s, pretending not to hear his deep chuckle as he headed into the busy room. 

It didn’t fail to occur to him that Granger probably shouldn’t have trusted _them_ to get anything done. 

_

Draco relaxed into a dark leather chair, a cigarette dangling from his fingers as he observed the circus in front of him. There was soft music playing in the background, but it got lost into the buzz of the conversations happening all over the room. 

He sat at a table overflowing with half-empty tumblers and marble ashtrays, struggling to pay attention to the barbs Theo, Rowle and Rookwood traded over what could only be described as an faux-friendly game of Wizarding darts.

Douglass had told him tonight was about getting together with their _associates,_ but less than ten minutes into the evening told Draco no one was interested in pretending it was casual. He had recognized several familiar faces -- some were elders he knew by virtue of the small pureblood community, but most were former classmates, older and younger than him, all of whom jumped over each other in an effort to get alone time with Robards or Douglass, who ate up the attention like the conceited bastards they were.

One look at them told Draco he would have no luck with the Minister candidate that night, and Rowle, whose face had brightened up at the sight of him, was the next best thing -- too prideful to admit his lack of popularity, but high enough up the ranks that he wasn’t a waste of time. 

Rookwood, unfortunately, had been an unavoidable nuisance. “Bloody hell, Nott, do you have a third eye or something?” he shouted, his lips curling into a sneer as he watched the score below Theo’s name increase. Then he let out a dark chuckle. “I always forget you have so much free time to work on your skills.”

Theo soaked up the poorly veiled insult like he did everything else -- with a grin and extra bounce in his step. “Maybe I’m just a natural,” he retorted, pointing a dart at Rookwood. “What’ve you been doing lately, Rookwood? Last _I_ heard, they’ve been keeping you on a tight leash since you pulled that little stunt on Granger,” he finished, turning around before he could catch the fury flash through Rookwood’s eyes. 

Draco tried and failed to hide his smirk. Rowle intervened, putting his hands up in an appeasing motion. “Come on, boys. Things are different now.” He looked pointendly at the three of them. “We’ve got a common goal, and everyone has a key place in it. There’s no room for petty fights.”

This time, Draco’s smirk turned into a loud chuckle. “Mate, maybe you should be writing Robards’ campaign speeches,” he said. “Your unity talk would fit perfectly.” 

“At least you’re consistent. Robards plays an angle in public, you do it for him here. A joint effort, ” added Theo, shaking his head at the flush of anger that rose up Rowle’s neck. He bumped his shoulders slightly. “Chill out, mate. We’re just playing with you. All that time in Azkaban made you rusty.”

“Blimey, don’t remind me,” said Rowle, seeming appeased by Theo’s tone, as if they were all sharing a moment of camaraderie. _Pathetic tosser,_ thought Draco. Whether Robards or the Dark Lord’s, these people were still begging for approval. “The Wizengamot almost makes me miss it.”

Draco took a long drag of his cigarette. “What are you on about? You’ve probably been sitting on your arse since you started there. Isn’t that what those chairs were made for?” He laughed at his own joke. 

“Oi,” exclaimed Rowle. “I bloody wish. That deranged bitch Jones manages to find time away from her stupid campaign to get on our arses. Now McLaggen’s assumed his chair and is on a fucking mudblood-loving crusade, the sodding traitor. ”

“Let those wankers delude themselves,” hissed Rookwood, baring his teeth. “McLaggen’s probably just chasing some mudblood pussy. And Jones’s days are numbered, if I have any say in it,” he said, a slow smile taking over his face, the familiar tinge of madness creeping into his voice. 

“The art of subtlety is clearly lost on you,” said Theo, giving Rookwood a side-long glance. “You might be right about McLaggen, I’ll give you that. I remember him chasing Granger’s skirt back in Hogwarts.” 

Draco’s spine stiffened. He could hex Theo for forcing him to hear her name in front of all of these people, and the way he tensed up made it clear he realized it. “Fuck, why are you bringing Granger up when we’ve finally gotten rid of her?” he groaned, forcing himself to relax. 

“Don’t know, mate, for a second there I thought _you_ were looking for a piece of that Mudblood’s arse,” barked Rookwood. “Can’t say I’d judge you for it. Fuck Jones,” he chuckled. “When we get what’s ours, Granger’s the first one I’ll go after.”

Snape’s voice sounded like a distant echo in his head -- _don’t let them see, Draco, that’s when they get to you_ \-- he whispered. Draco forced himself to push down the bile rising in his throat and clicked his tongue. “I thought Douglass made it clear that the plan was to chase the trash _out_ , Rookwood. I don’t know if he’d be happy to hear about your little thirst for mudblood pussy,” he said, the words coming out harsher than he meant them to.

Draco saw Rookwood’s face twist in fury. He opened his mouth, probably to snap back, but Rowle spoke before he could. “I don’t think Douglass is that set on the details,” he chuckled. “Sure, let’s chase most of them out. But we can keep some of them, and make them serve us right along with the elves.”

“Like pets,” beamed Rookwood, sounding overly proud of himself. He waggled his finger towards the three of them. “I call dibs on Granger. I fucking hate that pretentious cunt.”

Draco couldn’t help his loud scoff, and Rookwood’s eyes flew in his direction. He smashed the butt of his cigarette on the ashtray and stood up, rolling his shoulders as he grabbed one of the darts. “You, Cormac, and bloody Weasel are competing to see who’s more bloody obsessed with her, mate. I’d get that checked if I were you.”

“You forgot that bitch reported me because she couldn’t take some teasing?” hissed Rookwood. His scowl deepened when Draco’s dart hit the center of the bullseye, exploding in a shower of green dust. “Jokes' on her, though. Douglass had my back and she got what was coming for her.” 

“That wasn’t about you, Rookwood,” said Rowle, giving him a pitying look. “Granger was making too much noise. We thought she’d get us donation money and some public clout, but she was more trouble than what she was worth.”

Draco made a curious noise. “Why not fire her? She was still walking all high and mighty in the MRC, like she wasn’t bloody kicked out of the program. You could’ve spared us entirely.”

“And have her complain to Potter or try to get another Wizengamot meeting?” He shook his head. “We told Hughman to keep her busy and that’s it. I’ve got no idea how he wasted so much of her time, but I can imagine,” he laughed. “And she won’t ever know that the fifty thousand galleon donation she got paid for Robards’ campaign flyers.”

Theo snorted. “Only fifty thousand? The Golden Swot wasn’t worth more?”

Rowle let out a long-suffering sigh. “Probably would’ve gotten more out of her, if Hughman wasn’t such a useless twat. Couldn’t play her to save his life, but he was good at signing receipts and burying the paper trails, so Douglass kept him.”

Draco forced out a laugh, ignoring the way his stomach dropped. Talking to Rowle was easy -- too easy. The longer he spent with him, the more Malfoy felt like he was opening Pandora’s box. “Bloody genius. Maybe our suffering was worth it,” he said, nodding towards Theo and Rookwood. 

“Mate, that’s only half of it,” chirped Rowle, spurred on by the attention. Draco could hear the pride in his voice, watching his pale face flush red with excitement. “The Chosen One himself signed payment slips that went straight into Douglass’s pockets. The sad sod’s so desperate for a daddy he didn’t even question the absurd amount of galleons Robards used to send the MRC,” he mocked. “Hell, the DMLE probably paid for this little party of ours.” 

“Mate, that’s ruthless,” crowed Theo, staring up at Rowle with a intense look of admiration. If Draco didn’t know better, he’d almost believe it. “I bet it wasn’t just MRC money he was embezzling. And it’s not like Douglass can’t fund Robards’s campaign himself.”

“Why should he?” said Rowle, walking back towards their table and gesturing for them to follow, the game long forgotten. When they were all sitting around him, he summoned a new bottle of firewhiskey and filled his tumbler. “Every Ministry department with one of us in it is a bloody money machine,” he continued, nodding towards Rookwood. “Our boy here knows that pretty well.”

Rookwood rubbed his chin, a smug smile crossing his face. “I started at the Department of Magical Transportation a couple weeks ago. Once Kingsley’s out Robards will make me head of the department. The first thing I’ll do is fire the mudbloods and blood traitors.” 

“Placing more of us there also means more galleons,” said Rowle, chugging the rest of his firewhiskey and refilling the glass. “And the half-bloods like to call themselves new money.”

Draco joined in on the laugh. “Some poetic justice, right here,” he drawled, hiding his shaking hands under the table. Sweat was beginning to pool beneath the collar of his shirt, alerting him to his increasing urge to bolt the hell out of there. “Potter and Granger unknowingly helping us all. Please, tell me you got Weasel in there too so we get the full package.”

“No, mate.” Rowle waved a hand in dismissal. “We let Potter give Weasley all the missions he’s too incompentent to get himself, just so Scar-head could think he’s the one waving the wand.”

“The only thing Potter’s got is a fanclub, no actual power,” pointed out Theo, throwing back his drink and slamming the glass on the table. “A decade of fighting the Dark Lord and leading the Wizarding World, and all those three have to show for themselves are Orders of Merlin. Tragic, I’d say.”

“It’s coming in handy, though,” chuckled Rowle. “Jones doesn’t stand a chance. And once Robards in the Minister’s office, Rookwood here can have all the bloody pets he wants.”

Rookwood beamed like a child handed the newest Nimbus, and it took everything in Draco to control his face. 

“Can’t wait to help, mate,” said Draco. 

“Keep shagging the boss’ daughter and you’ll get there, golden boy.” Rookwood aimed for a teasing tone, but it sounded closer to a jab. Draco’s instinct was to roll his eyes, but the words held an undertone that threw him for a loop. 

He narrowed his eyes, noting how the wizard’s jaw was slightly clenched. _Just what I need_ , he groaned inwardly, _a fucking sociopath jealous of me._

“Speaking of the boss,” started Draco. He needed to get out of there before he lost the tenuous hold on his patience. The conversation had left him on edge, and Rowle’s expression was making his stomach revolt. He couldn’t stand how he looked at Draco like they were soldiers fighting under the same king. “We should drop by to say hello, Nott. It’s time we started figuring out when you’re going to get off of your arse and actually help with something,” he said, not giving him time to agree before pushing away from the table.

Rowle and Rookwood laughed boisterously at that, and Theo’s eyes narrowed. “Sure, there’s no one more eager to please than me,” he stood up, clapping a hand on Rookwood’s back. “See you later, lads,” he threw over his shoulder, falling into step beside Draco.

When they were a safe distance away, some of Theo’s carefully constructed facade dropped, a mix of perplexion and satisfaction overtaking his face. “Salazar bless their loud mouths,” he said out of the corner of his mouth.

“Indeed.”

_

Draco had barely stepped inside of the flat when he heard the sound of Granger’s feet pounding down the stairs. He glanced up, tiredly shrugging off the suit jacket he had worn all evening -- he felt the sudden urge to _incendio_ all of his clothes. 

There was something twisted about wearing the same suit home, like it had absorbed all of the scum and slime and dirt around him for the past few hours. It was impossible to ignore the filth that had left his own mouth, how easy it had been to play along. _You thought you could excuse everything, didn’t you? That the means justified the bloody end?_

“Fuck it all to hell,” he muttered to himself, ripping his shirt over his head and whipping off his belt. The smell of smoke and expensive cologne clung to his skin, stinging his nose. 

He kicked off his shoes before starting to unbutton his slacks. By the time Granger had neared him, he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. “Draco?” 

“Give me a second,” he snapped. When he was down to his drawers, he scooped up the clothes and placed them over the coffee table. He felt Granger silently tracking his moves, but he brushed it off, grabbing his wand and setting the entire mess ablaze. 

When the fabric had melted into a pool of ashes, Draco waited for satisfaction to hit his chest, or for the tightness in his stomach to loosen -- 

Unsurprisingly, none of it came. 

“That didn’t feel as good as I had expected,” he said darkly. He turned around, arching a brow at Granger’s uncertain expression. “ _What?_ ”

She didn’t say anything at first, looking at him intently. For some reason, it grated at Draco’s nerves, as if Granger somehow knew that he’d sat silently while she was insulted and taunted, that he had laughed, that he had commiserated--

“Why are you looking at me like that?” snapped Draco, his anger mixing with guilt. “I know I was dramatic, Granger, but it’s just some bloody clothes, you don’t need to give me that look. For Merlin’s sake, give me a--” 

Before he could finish, she had crossed the distance between them and smashed her lips against his.

Draco didn’t move for a long second, but she pressed into him insistently, and his hands gripped her waist more out of instinct than intent. 

Then his brain caught up, and all he could do was pull her flush against him, his hands desperately moving up and down her back. He _needed_ her -- maybe her touch could wash away the day from his skin. Maybe it’d make him feel less like the powerless fool he truly was. 

He gasped into her mouth, and she slipped her tongue inside, her fingers twisting into his hair as she held herself firmly against him, like she wanted to crawl into skin, like maybe he made her feel desperate, too --

Then she was roughly tearing her mouth away, the sudden distance between their bodies making his heart drop into his stomach. A complaint almost escaped his lips, but when he took in the look in her eyes -- 

It sent pins and needles running down his spine, and he’d do anything she wanted, just so Granger would keep looking at him just like he was -- 

“Fuck,” he groaned out loud, his breath heaving. Her lips were swollen, her eyes darker and heavy-lidded as they slowly ran down his body. The tension made the room around them feel smaller, and his skin tingled with anticipation. 

Then Granger’s body was back against his -- like scalding heat. He ripped her shirt over her head, and her bare skin’s contact made his mind go blank, the pleasure radiating from every point her fingertips touched.

He had kissed Granger more times than he could count, but it still felt like a novelty, causing an unexpected rush of feelings he had yet to become accustomed to. It took his breath away, making his heart beat unevenly as she pulled back, his bottom lip caught between her teeth. 

Her tongue found his neck, and the sensation sent a shock straight into his groin. “Ah, fucking bloody hell,” he choked out, his gaze following the path she traced down his body. 

She looked up at him with bright, shimmering eyes, easing down his drawers, kissing deeper and deeper into his thighs. His hands balled into fists, and he controlled the urge to snap his hips forward as Granger slowly took him in her mouth. 

He gasped, the temperature of his body increasing when she reached out to grab the back of his thigh, her nails digging painfully into the skin. The sting intensified every sensation he felt, and he loved how her little sounds of pleasure vibrated around him. 

Soon, _too bloody soon_ , his head was lolling back, a loud curse escaping past his lips as Granger kissed her way up his body, stopping on the shell of his ear. 

He couldn’t say anything at first, and Granger splayed her palms on his bare chest, softly guiding him towards the couch. His legs parted wide so she could rest on top of him, her fingers travelling up and down his face while his breaths evened out. 

“Feel better now?” she said, voice sparkling with amusement. 

He could only muster a flat “Huh.” 

“What an effective way to get you to shut up,” she said, the corners of her eyes crinkling. He slowly dragged his hand up her thigh, but when he brushed his fingers over the waistband of her pajama pants, Granger stopped him. “I’m okay.”

He considered her, his forehead creasing. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” reassured Granger, kissing the corner of his lips. Draco exhaled sharply. “Want to tell me what happened at the party?”

“Kind of have to,” he said grudgingly. “Fuck, I hate being around those people. It felt like the summer before seventh year all over again.”

“It’s completely different, though,” she pointed out. “You have to tell yourself that.”

He nodded absentmindedley. “The only reason they wanted you in the MRC was to get more public support, and for you to charm donors into emptying their pockets,” he muttered. She stilled against him. 

“Harry was the one who suggested I applied to work there. Do you think--” She let the words trail off, but Draco filled in the blanks. 

“That Robards planted the idea? As a friendly suggestion?” He let out a dry chuckle. “I think that’s probably what happened, Granger.”

“He has been playing us like bloody chess pieces for months. Years, even.” She let out a loud groan. 

He hesitated, knowing his next words were bound to make her even more upset. “Potter’s a major player in their plan,” he said. Granger leaned back in his lap, giving him her full attention. “Getting public support for the election was part of it, sure, but Robards set up a scheme to embezzle galleons from the DMLE, and Potter played right into it.”

“Douglass Greengrass told you that?”

“Fuck no, I couldn’t get a moment alone with him or Robards, it’s like they were fucking visiting royalty,” he rolled his eyes. “Rowle told me. Sneaking some Veritaserum into his firewhiskey wouldn’t have worked as well as boosting the tosser’s ego did. He couldn’t stop talking.”

“Not surprising,” she scoffed. “What else did he say?”

Draco swallowed past the lump in his throat. He didn’t know if he should tell Granger what they said about her, thinking of it made his muscles snap tight with tension -- _but you promised her to be honest,_ a voice said, despite his effort to shut it up. “Draco?”

“Rookwood’s obsessed with you,” he said, his jaw clenched. “Well, obsessed with hurting you. Rowle is more lucid, but not by much. Douglass talks a good talk, but he’s entertaining a bunch of bloodthirsty lunatics. You’re right, they’d never stop at chasing muggleborns out.” 

Granger closed her eyes for a moment. “It must’ve been hell, listening to all of that.”

He gave her a casual shrug, but his hold on her waist tightened. “Whatever. He said a lot, but the most important things were about Potter. If he wasn’t so obtuse, he might’ve realized something was off.”

She looked at him pointendly. “Harry traded one mentor for another, Draco. I’m guessing he can’t see a reason to look deeper into things because he trusts Robards so much.”

“That’s cute, but Potter being so _trusting_ is basically funding Robards’s entire election campaign, and who knows what else,” he said harshly. He knew being with Granger meant accepting her tolerance of Potter, but he couldn’t control the prick of irritation that hit him. “The MRC too, but that’s more Hughman’s fault, and he was in on the whole thing.” 

“I should’ve broken into his office when I had the chance,” she hissed. “Maybe we need to loop Harry and Ron in on this. I’m just not as -- _reckless as they are,_ you know? In the best possible way. Maybe--”

“Granger, what are you on about?” he said, screwing up his face in confusion. “The two of us outsmart Potter and Weasley, by a long shot. Hell, Theo could probably take them on while plastered on firewhiskey.”

Predictably, Granger scowled. “Harry and Ron are very clever, and academic intelligence isn’t everything,” she said. He cocked an eyebrow, and she rolled her eyes at him. “And more importantly, I’m too cautious for this kind of thing. I can’t help it,” she said, more to herself than to him. “I can’t keep Harry out any longer. I just can’t. I told him the war wasn’t about him and Voldemort, and this one isn’t about me and blood supremacists. It’s about the system, and if it falls into Robards’s and Douglass’s hands, then it’s going to affect all of us.” 

“You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself,” he pointed out.

She snorted. “Even I need a pep talk every once and awhile,” she said. “I guess I’m not immune from some dumb pride. I don’t _want_ to ask for his help.”

That spurred Draco on, feeling an urge to get rid of the look on her face mixing with his overwhelming desire to finally end this hellish night. He quickly summoned what he’d spent that entire afternoon working on. 

“Speaking of pep talk,” he whispered, once the framed canvas had fallen into his outstretched hand. He offered it to Granger, who tentatively reached for it. He smiled at her puzzled expression, then muttered a spell under his breath. 

As the words appeared, one by one, Granger’s grip on the frame grew steadier. Her face opened up, her eyes bright and lips parted with awe. 

“I thought a visual reminder of your chant could help,” he muttered. Her eyes fluttered in his direction, shining with an intensity that made her irises darken. “We can leave it upstairs, but I came up with a Disillusionment charm in case you wanted to hang it down here. The words won’t be visible to anyone but the two of us.”

He held his breath as he waited for Granger to say something -- _anything._ Her attention was glued to the frame, and the seconds slowly dragged by. 

For the first time since the idea sprung into his mind, Draco felt uncertain. 

He opened his mouth -- to apologize, or to make an excuse, he wasn’t sure. 

And maybe Granger caught onto it, because her eyes narrowed, and she snapped, “Don’t you dare,” just before she bent down to kiss him. 

He hugged her tighter against him, and Granger set the frame beside them on the couch, lifting her now free hand to caress his cheeks. 

“Thank you for the gift, Draco. I-- it’s perfect,” she faltered, her words coming out a little breathless. “I adore it, I can’t--”

He frowned as she sputtered, looking overwhelmed. A stray curl fell over her eyes, and she irritatedly blew it away, a slight blush to her cheeks. _Bloody_ _hell_ , he thought, _sometimes I forget how young she is._ “I’ve been meaning to say this--”

“What?”

Her free hand went to the nape of his neck, and she pressed. “I don’t know why this is so hard,” groaned Granger. “I was going to tell you when I woke up from my nightmare! But I really-- what I’m trying to say is,” she stammered, and Draco--

It took everything in him to keep from laughing. 

Granger exhaled a long, irritated breath. Her chest expanded, and she stubbornly jutted her chin, opening her mouth to say, “Draco, I--”

“You know that I love you, right, Granger?” he said easily, half to put her out of her misery and half because pissing her off would be better than watching her struggle. 

He smirked, waiting for her to say it back--

But Granger pulled away from him, instead. She grimaced, summoning her shirt and angrily dragging it over her head. 

“What?” he sputtered, watching her pull her hair into a knot. 

“You’re so bloody annoying,” she snapped, starting to walk away from him. 

“You’re a mad woman,” he yelled after her, looking around for his pants. He let out a victorious hiss once he found them, putting them on and rushing to catch up to her. “What the fuck did I do now?”

Granger stopped in the middle of the stairs, turning around and narrowing her eyes at Draco, who was staring up at her from the bottom step.

“You know what you did,” she accused, pointing a finger at him. His eyes widened. “ _I_ was going to say it first. You _knew_ it. And you just _had_ to beat me to it.”

He shot her a feigned expression of innocence. “It’s not a competition, Granger.”

“You’re a sick man,” she said, slowly stepping down the stairs. “This is ridiculous.”

“You’re the one who’s mad at me for saying I loved you first,” he said patiently, the corners of his lips tugging up. “How am I the competitive one?”

“You’re not fooling me,” she said, finally within touching range. “I know you, Malfoy. You interrupted me so you could win one over me. Years after this, you’ll hang it over my head.”

He shook his head, pulling her flush against him. “It’s not my fault you have, ah, what do you call it? The emotional range of a teaspoon?” She looked at him menacingly. “I mean, how hard is it to tell the wizard you live with that you love him? It’s not like he doesn’t know it already.”

She pinched his side in retaliation. “You’re lucky you’re pretty and wealthy,” she said. “I’ll talk to Harry tomorrow, and the only thing I’ll be thinking about is _this._ I hope you realize that-- _hey_ ” she squealed as he bent down to throw her over his shoulder. “ _You’re not helping your case!”_

Draco laughed, ignoring her protests as he walked towards the bedroom. 

The world around them seemed to be slowly crumbling. And he knew that whatever was coming their way wouldn’t be good. 

But at the moment, he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, lovelies! Sorry I'm getting this to you later than usual. 
> 
> Life is very busy, tiring, and stressful so, to be honest, I haven't had the energy to write like I wish I had. It's a hard business sometimes, pouring yourself into something like this, but today I sat down and reread your feedback, and it reminded me that I'm not shouting into the void, and that you've been invested in this journey, too :) this is a thank you note, and a reminder to myself that my work matters.
> 
> Fiction is about losing yourself and getting something out of it, too. I hope this one helps with that :) take care of yourself, you! See you next week!


	33. This has Nothing to Do with Faith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I had to chose one song for this chapter and for Hermione and Harry's relationship, it would be [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HpxX4ZE4KWE). But I do have a bunch. 
> 
> Thank you, always @jeparlepasfrancais for the lovely work editing this and making it readable to all.

“ **When you paint an evil thing, do you invoke it or take away its power?** This has nothing to do with faith but is still a good question (...) Some people like to hear the sound of their own voice. **If you don’t believe in the world it would be stupid to paint it.** If you don’t believe in God, who are you talking to?” Four Proofs, Richard Siken

* * *

Hermione frowned as she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window -- 

Her naturally full cheeks were sunken in, her dark brown eyes a touch larger, and her lips slightly fuller. The bottle of _Sleekezy_ she’d poured over her hair straightened it into a long fringe, which hid her face, and helped make her even less recognizable. 

To anyone who’d spent more than a couple of hours in her presence, there was no mistaking who she really was, but her well practiced glamour did its job, altering her features just enough to let her shoulder her way through the hordes of Ministry employees without attracting unwanted attention. 

Hermione made sure that the curtain of hair shaded her face, hurrying into the lift and intertwining her fingers in front of herself. 

Her side skimmed the wall as she stole a glance at the large wizard standing a couple of inches away from her. He didn’t pay her any mind, but he didn’t make an effort to distance himself, either, the abrupt movement of the lift making their shoulders bump. 

She stepped forward and wrapped her fingers around the golden rope hanging overhead, tapping her feet nervously as the doors opened to reveal the vibrant _Department of Magical Games and Sports._ The lift stopped long enough to allow a small group of people to rush in. 

Hermione pressed her body closer to the wall and tried to make herself smaller. 

“ _Blimey_ ,” exclaimed a tall witch in a high-pitched voice. Her long ponytail swished as she excitedly turned to face the much shorter wizard beside her, who stared up at her with a scowl. “Did you see this?” she said, waving the magazine rolled in her fist. 

“Of course I bloody did, it’s all everyone’s talking about this morning,” grumbled the wizard. Hermione tried not to stare, but her eyebrows jumped towards her hairline when she caught a flash of her own face splayed across the cover. “It’s the first time I even heard of this sodding magazine.”

“Are you guys talking about _The Serpent Wire?_ ” piped up the wizard by her side. Their bodies jostled as the lift came into a stop, but he didn’t seem to care, inching forward to peek over the witch’s shoulder. “I’ve been trying to get my hands on it all morning!”

The witch shot him a sly smile before handing him her copy. “Honestly, Oliver, you’re always late to everything,” she said. “Of course it was going to sell out, it’s the first interview Hermione Granger has given in years. Give it back to me before you leave today.”

The wizard beamed, and Hermione chanced a side-long glance in his direction, reeling when the lift moved and jerked to another stop, the booming voice announcing yet another Ministry subdivision as more people filtered in and out. “Is it true she made mad accusations about the Wizengamot?”

“She’s just making herself the victim,” said the smaller wizard, in a grumpy tone. “The Wizengamot--”

The witch rolled her eyes. “Oh, shut your trap, Jeffrey. Your boss isn’t here, he’s not going to hear you say what you think.”

Jeffrey shifted, then exhaled a long-suffering sigh. “Bloody Rookwood, he doesn’t have half the experience to work in our bloody department. He’s making my life a living hell.”

“And that’s what Hermione pointed out,” defended the witch. “Why are all of these former Death-Eaters working here, without experience or training? We never get any proper answers from the Wizengamot about anything. And the rehab program--”

“Robards said it was quite successful,” cut in Jeffrey. 

“Please,” she grumbled. “That Rookwood bloke has barely been here a month and you’ve already caught him saying derogatory things about Muggleborns!”

“Why is she slamming the Wizengamot when Hestia Jones works there?” asked Oliver, whose face was hidden behind the magazine. “Isn’t she supporting her candidacy?”

“She’s impartial,” urged the woman, and Hermione shifted uncomfortably at the passion in her voice. “Listen, I don’t know who I’m voting for yet, but we all know things have been weird around here lately. How fair is it that Cormarc McLaggen is working at the Wizengamot when I’ve worked here for over ten years and couldn’t even get an interview? He’s practically a toddler.”

Jeffrey snorted. “No Muggleborn has ever worked there, Freya. What did you expect?”

“To be given the same treatment as everyone else,” she said angrily. “Robards keeps talking about how much we’ve evolved, but frankly--”

“You’re deserting Robards because of one interview?” asked Oliver, lowering the magazine and frowning in Freya’s direction. “After everything he did for the Ministry--”

“I’m not _deserting_ him,” snapped Freya, crossing her arms. Blotches of red appeared on her cheeks. “I’m just saying she’s not exactly wrong to question this injustice. This isn’t the first time my muggleborn friends and I have talked about this--”

Jeffrey snickered. “Do you have secret meetings to trash our leaders? That’s ridiculous.” 

“Of course you’d think so,” she sneered. “I wasn’t even sure I was going to vote, but maybe Hestia _would_ be better than Robards. And I’m not the only one that thinks that. My friends were in a frenzy all morning and the owls won’t stop coming in. Isn’t it strange that Hermione Granger’s first interview in _years_ , one where she makes serious accusations against the Wizengamot, comes out on the same day it announces we’ve got to get rid of all of our Muggle devices?”

“You don’t even use them!” exclaimed Jeffrey. “I’ve known you for fifteen years and you’ve never talked about Muggle technology once.”

“I should be able to use anything Muggle if I want to,” she fired back. “This isn’t a coincidence. Maybe Hermione knows what the Wizengamot is up to, and did the interview to warn us.”

“Of what, exactly?” snapped Jeffrey. “She went on a rant, that’s bloody it. There’s nothing nefarious about banning Muggle devices.”

“This isn’t the only anti-Muggle law the Wizengamot has passed recently,” she said, shaking her head. “And honestly, Jeffrey, you’re married to a bloody Muggleborn. How can you be this ignorant?”

“My wife spent the entire war fearing for her life, do you think she’s bothered by a few piddly restrictions when she’s finally safe?” He shot her an angry look. “You need to sort out your priorities.”

“No one should have to settle for being treated like we’re less than everyone else. War or no war,” she hissed from the corner of her mouth, just as the lift opened to reveal the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. “Come on, we’ve got a meeting to attend.”

“And I hope we won’t talk about Hermione Granger through all of it. We’re supposed to be working, for Salazar’s sake,” he snapped. Before he stepped into the hall, he turned to look behind him. His eyes lingered on Hermione for a long second. She suppressed the urge to avert her gaze, her features setting into a flat expression, as if she was lost in thought. 

Jeffrey’s forehead creased with suspicion, but he didn’t say anything as he turned to face his friend. “Mate, come on, you can read that shite later.”

“Oh,” said Oliver, sounding startled. He shook his head dazedly, then blinked at Jeffrey, who rolled his eyes before stomping away. “Hey, why do you think Harry Potter isn’t supporting the same candidate as Hermione--”

His voice faded out as the doors closed behind them. Hermione breathed out in relief, tightening her hold on the rope as the lift moved sideways. _Merlin_ , she thought, still too anxious to absorb everything she’d heard. 

“But it’s working,” she mumbled, feeling amazement fill her chest. People might not agree with her yet, but they were asking questions. 

Her interview had sparked an uncomfortable conversation. _My friends were in a frenzy all morning. The owls won’t stop coming in_ , the witch had said. 

Hermione pressed her other hand to her stomach, trying to squash the nervousness and excitement fluttering within..

People were angry, too -- 

_I’m not completely alone in this_ , she realized, but before the idea was fully formed, the voice announced they’d arrived at Level 2. Hermione pushed her stray thoughts to the back of her mind and straightened her shoulders. 

Hermione had visited Harry at work enough to know that as much as the DMLE bragged about being gatekeepers protecting the safety of the Wizarding World, they didn’t take too many precautions themselves. 

No one spared her more than a fleeting glance as she made her way down the hall, smoothing the wrinkles in her skirt as her boots clacked against the tiles.

Witches and wizards clad in the scarlet Auror uniform were loitering outside their offices, chatting to coworkers wearing ordinary robes. She’d owled Theo earlier that morning, intending to double-check what she’d gathered from research. 

She had never seen the Head of Department’s office, and she wasn’t eager to be caught snooping around. The _Serpent Wire_ interview changed the game: she knew there’d be an uproar if she were spotted, now that everyone knew her views on the current administration. The last thing she needed was to give the media even more of a reason to pit her and Harry against each other. 

Theo, unsurprisingly, had come through with more information than she’d initially asked for. He’d explained that Harry’s office was located between the Auror and Improper Use of Magic Divisions, and that he’d be busy accompanying Robards on a public visit to St. Mungo’s on that particular morning. 

Hermione discreetly checked her watch as she strolled down the hallway. It was barely past noon, and Harry shouldn’t have arrived yet. _Perfect_ , she thought, walking past conference rooms and smiling unabashedly at busy employees. 

By the time she reached the Head’s office, the chaos of the department had faded into background noise. 

The door to the office was richly paneled in mahogany wood, with a golden knocker affixed just above her head. Hermione was reminded of the stuffy self-importance of her Muggle private school. It was hard to imagine her daring, adventure-seeking friend spending most of his time here.

The receptionist’s desk was empty. Hermione thanked the universe for the bout of luck and made a beeline for the wooden door, already prepared for the warning tingle of a heavily warded office. 

She sheepishly looked around, making sure the coast was clear before reaching for her wand. 

_This should be harder_ , she huffed, a thrill of adrenaline making the blood rush through her veins. A crease of concentration appeared between her eyebrows as she mouthed a series of well-practiced spells. 

It took less than a minute for the wards to fall, one after another.

She smirked in satisfaction and stepped into the room, smoothly raising every ward behind her before shutting the door. She spun in place before zeroing on the armchair across from the desk. 

Hermione let the glamour fade away, doing her best to ignore her growing curiosity. _This is already an invasion of privacy without you poking around_ , she argued with herself, despite her eyes cataloging every spot they landed on. 

Harry’s framed Auror certificate was pinned to the center of the wall, just above a smaller frame holding his Order of Merlin. _He’s prouder of being an Auror than saving the world_ , she chuckled to herself, inhaling sharply when she noticed the row of photographs lined up on the fireplace’s white wooden mantel. 

In the first, Harry gleefully flew loops on his broom, cheered on by a stand full of Gryffindors. Next was a picture of him and Ginny, older and more subdued, exchanging adoring looks before smiling for the camera. 

In the last one, Hermione was between both of the boys -- their heads were thrown back with laughter as she draped her arms over their shoulders, hugging them into her chest. “We’re not much like that, any more,” she muttered under her breath, suddenly wanting to flee the room. 

She knew she’d chosen the harder way to do this -- she could’ve owled Harry and visited the old flat, or asked him for coffee, or met him outside the Burrow, or any other option that didn’t include changing her appearance and sneaking into the Ministry when she shouldn’t be anywhere near it. 

But doing so would’ve intensified the anxiety bubbling inside of her. 

Choosing to have this conversation between the walls of Harry’s office was supposed to offer a safety barrier, to make it loud and clear she wasn’t contacting him in order to apologize, or to rekindle their friendship. Not when he hadn’t given her any indication he wanted to. 

Having him think she’d beg for it made her feel raw. 

And Hermione was done feeling like that when it came to him. 

“How in the bloody hell did you get past the wards?” bellowed Harry, throwing open the door and abruptly stopping on his tracks. Hermione turned around in the chair in time to see him stick his head around the doorframe. “Grisley, please, don’t come in here until I tell you to.”

A surprisingly young voice began a breathless apology, and Hermione tried to appear unruffled as Harry closed the door and walked around his desk. “Maybe your assistant let me in,” she tried. He gave her a flat look, and she shrugged, her lips twitching involuntarily. “Really, it was too damn easy, Harry.” 

“Those wards were strong,” he sighed, rubbing a hand over the day-old stubble gracing his chin. 

“Is Ron around?” she asked, trying to appear sure of herself. “I need to talk to you. Both of you.”

“He’s around here somewhere,” he said, exhaling through his nose. “Ginny says you’ve been well, so I’m guessing you’ve been meeting,” he hesitated before letting out a low, “even though I haven’t seen you at the Burrow helping her plan the wedding.”

“She’s gotten more than enough help from Mrs. Weasley without me stepping in,” she shot back, irritated at the sudden flush of her cheeks. After the blow up with Mrs. Weasley, and Harry, and then Ron, Ginny had gently avoided asking for Hermione’s help with any maid-of-honor duty. 

“I wasn’t trying to accuse you of--” His voice cracked, and his jaw clenched as he leaned back in the chair. “Listen, are you here to talk about your little stunt in Zabini’s magazine?”

“It wasn’t a stunt,” she said, clenching her armrests. 

“I spent all morning answering questions about it, Hermione,” he said in a loud voice. “ _Why is Hermione coming after the Ministry when we’ve finally reached peace? Is Hermione mad because the MRC was shut down and she’s out of a job? Did you know she was doing the interview? What can we take from the fact you’re standing on opposite sides of the election? Does this mean the Golden Trio has broken up? What’s your take on--”_

“Oh, I get it,” she interrupted. “The interview wasn’t about _you_ , Harry.”

“You’re too smart to believe that,” he spat. “I _represent_ the DMLE. Hell, I _am_ the bloody DMLE as far as the general public is concerned. You knew bloody well that criticizing who I work with and the candidate I support would put _my_ credibility up for debate.”

“Merlin, you sound so much like a politician right now. Robards did a bloody number on you, didn’t he?” She shook her head. “I don’t regret anything I’ve said, Harry. I have reasons to believe Robards isn’t fit to be Minister. In fact--”

“Oh, here we go,” he said, gesturing towards her. “Please, tell me everything you know that the head of a bloody department has no clue about.”

“You know what? _No_ ,” she said angrily. “You don’t get to use that dismissive tone on me, Harry Potter. I’m not crazy. I’ve never given you _any_ reason to question me, and I’m not going to let you undermine me because you don’t like what I’m saying.” She closed her eyes for a moment, the anger sizzling inside of her almost overwhelming. “You don’t get to do that to me again. I won’t let you, and I’m not leaving until you listen. So get Ron here already, because I’m not going to repeat myself either.” 

Harry swallowed sharply, and Hermione waited for him to protest, to argue, or to try to dismiss her again -- 

When it came to their friendship, she didn’t have any more cards to lay on the table. They’d both said their piece, and they had yet to figure out what came next. She didn’t need him as much as a childish part of her wanted him, but if he refused to listen to her --

If Harry belittled and ignored her about something like _this_ \--

She didn’t think they’d come back from it. 

“Alright,” said Harry at last, visibly deflating. He pushed his glasses up his nose and stood up before walking to the door. “Grisley, please get Auror Weasley for me. Tell him it's urgent. And _no_ , he can’t come after lunch.”

Hermione didn’t hear his assistant’s response, but she assumed it was affirmative, because Harry didn’t say anything else before returning to his seat. There was a stifling silence between them, and anger still vibrated underneath her skin. 

She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, knowing her emotions would be plain on her face, so her gaze drifted back to the photos. _We look so damn different_. 

“We do,” muttered Harry, and her gaze snapped towards him. She hadn’t realized she had said it out loud. “It feels like a lifetime away.” His voice sounded strangely breathless. “You look good, Hermione. I mean that. And the way you spoke to me just now? You sounded so much younger, just like we were in that picture.”

She scoffed. “There’s a difference between chastising you for not doing your homework and having to defend myself against you, Harry. It’s awful that you made me do that.”

“Blimey, Hermione, I’m sorry,” he groaned. “You caught me off guard, alright? Robards kept asking me if I knew about the interview. He was so pissed, and those bloody reporters were relentless. But you know what? I was angrier that you didn’t tell me.”

“I know the feeling,” she said flatly. 

“I know you do,” he nodded. “I’ve got no clue about what’s happening in your life anymore. Ginny knows more about it than I do. Hell, at this point, bloody Theo Nott probably does--”

“Wait, what?” she said, frowning in confusion. “What are you on about?”

“Those pictures of you all over _Witch Weekly_ , Hermione. And Ginny told me you were living with a bloke but didn’t want to tell her who it was. I figured the only reason you’d hide something like that was if you were dating him.”

Hermione couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped her lips, and Harry blinked at her. 

“Harry, he was holding hands with another woman at the Ministry's Ball,” she said, the irony making her chuckle harder. “How did you leap to that conclusion?”

His eyes widened. “I thought she was his mother.”

She rolled her eyes, but before she could give an explanation, Ron casually strolled into the room -- the scarlet fabric of his robes contrasted with his shaggy red hair, but the uniform seemed to boost his boyish confidence. 

It only seemed to falter when his eyes fell on her. “Hermione,” he exhaled, looking between the two of them. “You’re here.”

“I am,” she said. “Sit down, Ron.”

He slid into the chair beside hers, gaze still glued on her. “The gang’s back. Thought I’d gone bonkers for a second there.” He chuckled, not noticing how his words hung heavily in the air. “What’s going on?”

“I’ll get to the point,” said Hermione. She didn’t look at them as she picked up her purse from the floor and opened it. She pulled out two neat folders and handed one to each of them, acting more confident than she felt. “These are untampered reports that I got hold of when I worked at the MRC. There’s also copies of my notes about the rehab program, which I wrote while I was in charge of the meetings, before I suspected anything,” Ron frowned. “You’ll also find every statement Robards gave about the MRC, which you’ll see contradict factual events at the time.”

“Hermione--” started Harry.

“Let me finish,” she spat. “There isn’t enough information in those files to build a case. I know that, and even if it was, it wouldn’t matter. The Wizengamot is corrupt to its core. I have no illusions that they’d welcome this. Some departments in the Ministry are infiltrated too, while others are entirely in the hands of dangerous individuals.” 

For a second, the only sound in the room was their collective inhale. Hermione waited for what she knew was coming, and before long, both of them snapped forward. 

“Hermione--”

“What are you on about--”

“This makes no sense--”

“Who’s dangerous?”

“How do you even--”

“ _Boys_ ,” she said loudly, and they hesitated, trading looks before turning towards her. It was the same unspoken language that Hermione was too familiar with, but was never a part of. For the first time, it didn’t send stings of jealousy running down her spine. “I have it on good authority that Douglass Greengrass and Robards are working together to capture the Ministry after the upcoming elections. I don’t know the full extent of it, but I know their plan hinges on putting former Death Eaters in Ministry offices. Their plan -- ” her words came out shaky. “They’re as bad as Voldemort, if not worse.”

“Hermione, I don’t know where you got this information from, but Robards has been working at the DMLE for over twenty years. He _fought_ against Voldemort, for Merlin’s sake,” said Harry. 

“And Greengrass has always been neutral. That means nothing,” said Hermione. “Maybe Robards was on the right side at first, then got seduced by power. I don’t know, Harry, and frankly, I could care less. What I know is that he has been manipulating you for years.”

“That’s not--”

Before he could continue, Hermione rushed out. “Draco Malfoy told me.” The two of them looked at her with twin expressions of astonishment. She’d known that going to Harry and Ron for help meant she’d have to tell them the _entire_ truth, but her heart was still hammering inside her chest. “Theo Nott’s been giving me information, as well. Daphne Greengrass, too.”

Harry let out an incredulous laugh. “What, are you a Slytherin now? You said Draco Malfoy told you all this? Why the bloody hell would you believe him?”

“Because I do,” she said simply. “Think about it. Draco and Theo and Daphne would all benefit from Robards becoming Minister, so there’s no reason for them to lie, but I know that’s not enough for you.”

“Can you blame us, Hermione?” said Ron, blotches of crimson tinting his cheeks. “I love you, and I trust you, but this sounds absolutely mad.”

“It actually doesn’t. Not when you think about what’s been happening,” she said. “You must’ve noticed how many more purebloods are working here. More and more old families are reclaiming their chairs in the Wizengamot. Rowle was doing a stint in Azkaban half a minute ago and now he’s in charge of passing laws. Goyle and a bunch of others as well. Rookwood, who _attacked_ me, is working at the Ministry. Doesn’t that sound crazy to you?”

“Didn’t you work at the rehab program because you believed these people could change, Hermione?” accused Harry. 

“Of course I did, but the rehab program never worked as it was supposed to. The Wizengamot was releasing people left and right before I even got involved with it, and staff protests were ignored,” she said. “Why did you give Bart Hughman an entire division in the DMLE, Harry?”

He seemed baffled. “Robards told me how great it would be for the DMLE to focus on Criminal Mind Studies. You know that the Muggle government does that, Hermione. It wasn’t an unreasonable suggestion.”

“Did you pick Hughman yourself?” She waited for his face to clear before continuing. “He has no credentials whatsoever when it comes to criminal psychology. In fact, he’s always talked badly about the rehab program. He’s interested in power and prestige, and he’s been Robards and Douglass’ pawn for so long that they rewarded him with that division.”

Harry’s jaw clenched, looking away from her. “That’s not even the worst of it, Harry. Hestia told me that the MRC’s liaison got the job through Robards too. She’s probably been working for him this entire time. Maybe ask yourself how many changes to the DMLE have been something _you_ wanted or something he advised you to do.”

“You’re making it sound--” Harry stood up abruptly, shoving his hands inside his pockets as he stumbled towards the fireplace. Hermione couldn’t see his face, but his shoulders were set tight. “I’m not a bloody fool, Hermione.”

“You’re not, but he has been fooling you,” she said, not unkindly. “Harry, he was the one who told you to propose to Ginny.” she heard Ron’s sharp intake of breath, and when she glanced in his direction, she found his expression of confusion. “Having your support would’ve gone a long way even when you were a bachelor Auror, but when you’re the Head of the DMLE and a family man? I’m guessing he wanted to appeal to the more conservative audiences. Not only that, but you’d continue to do his work for him here.”

He tore his glasses off of his face, running a shaky hand over the perspiration gathering on his forehead. “You’re not suggesting I’m a part of this, are you?” His voice was tight, as if he was barely keeping hold of his control. 

“Not willingly, no,” she said softly, almost afraid her words would tip him over the edge. Hermione felt a powerful hatred towards Robards and Douglass. They were the ones doing the damage, and they’d put her in charge of digging the knife in. 

“Harry,” she murmured. “Rowle bragged to Draco and Theo about how Robards has been funneling the DMLE budget into several ghost projects. That money is going straight into his campaign funds.”

“That’s not true,” he choked out, his Adam’s apple moving as he swallowed roughly. He marched towards the large oak cabinet in the corner of the room, yanking the top drawer. “Fuck. _No, no, no,_ ” he gasped, muttering incomprehensibly under his breath, tossing file after file to the floor, sending parchments flying across the room. “They’re not bloody here!”

“Mate, calm down,” said Ron, and Harry turned to them with an expression of despair. He ran his hands nervously through his hair, and Hermione’s heart broke. “Harry, _breathe_.”

“After the Wizengamot decided to shut down the MRC, I didn’t want to fire the liaison. I asked Robards where I could place her, because he knew her better. And he suggested the financial department, and I--” His voice broke. “I told her to file every statement here. It’s grunt work. I sign papers, I don’t have time to sort that mess, so she took them. She took every copy I had.”

Hermione gulped, and Ron turned to her for help, his voice acquiring an hopeful pitch. “Maybe she stored them away and you can just ask her for them.”

Harry snorted. “After all of what Hermione told us, how likely do you think that is? She probably incendioed all of it, because she bloody knows I wouldn’t have asked to see them ever again. I wouldn’t--” His voice cracked. “I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. I don’t answer to anyone but Kinglsey, he wouldn’t ask to look at the budget. I handed her all of the evidence, I--”

“Harry, it’s okay,” said Hermione, taking tentative steps towards him. She reached out, slowly enough he could stop her. She half expected him to.

He let her wrap her fingers around his bony wrist and tug him towards her. Her hold was soft, almost a ghost of a touch. “I screwed up.”

“You didn’t know,” she whispered. “None of us knew.”

“I fought you every time you tried to warn me,” he said, almost choking on his words.

“Yes, and that was a mistake,” she said bluntly. “You can keep beating yourself up about it, and it wouldn’t change a thing, Harry. I don’t have time, and frankly, neither does the Wizarding World. We have roughly three months until the election.”

Silence fell between them, and Hermione watched as a variety of emotions flashed across Harry’s face. Finally, it set in determination. “I’ll owl Robards,” he said loudly, marching towards his desk and grabbing an empty parchment. “I’ll confront him about this.”

“He’ll wonder how you know, Harry, and you can’t tell him it came from me. If you do, it won’t be long before they look into it and find out who told me, and then any advantage we have will be gone.”

“That doesn’t matter, because we’ll stop them.”

“For Merlin’s sake,” she groaned. “You just told me you’ve got no evidence. I went this route already. I tried to tell people, I tried to warn Kingsley and he ignored me. This place is rotten to its bloody core, and the Wizengamot’s too full of their minions for any accusation to stick. It _won’t work_.”

“Then what do we suggest we do?” he snapped. “Sit on our bloody arses?”

“Do you think that’s what I’ve been doing? Give me a break,” she rolled her eyes. “You can’t fly in on your bloody nimbus and just save the day, Harry. I’ve got a plan, but I need proof. And we just don’t have that right now.”

Harry groaned and fell back into his chair. “Merlin, I’d trade this for a fucking duel any day. At least you know who your enemies are. I feel like I can’t trust anyone.”

“What does this Douglass bloke even plan to do?” frowned Ron. “Robards will be Minister and they’ll get some Death-Eaters wankers here, so bloody what? He can’t possibly do much.”

Hermione sat on the edge of Harry’s desk. “He can do anything, Ron. He’ll be the most powerful person in Wizarding Britain. The government’s in charge of _everything_. Part of it is benefitting purebloods, sure, but his ultimate goal is to banish muggleborns, maybe worse. The things Draco told me last night --” She shook her head. “He’s Voldemort in a more palatable package.”

Ron’s gaze dropped to his hands, but when he looked back up at her, his eyes shone with recognition. “I know we haven’t talked in a while, Hermione, but I know you,” he muttered. “You called Malfoy by his first name.”

Hermione’s face hardened. _Of course he’d notice that_. 

“How did you get that bloody Death-Eater scum to tell you all of that?” His voice was a mix of disgust and anger, but there was something deeper, something that tugged at Hermione’s heartstrings. “Why would he tell _you_?”

“Draco told me because we’re -- together,” she muttered, tension making her neck ache. Her hair felt foreign between her fingers, but she nervously tugged at the tips. “We’ve been together for months, now. And he obviously doesn’t believe in pureblood supremacy. And I--” Ron roughly pushed back from his chair. “Sit down, Ronald.”

“I’m not listening to this,” he said, his eyes glimmering painfully. He shoved his hands in his pockets. 

“Ron, mate,” tried Harry. 

“No, you can’t sit here and tell me you don’t think this is the most insane thing you’ve ever heard, Harry,” he gasped. 

Hermione’s eyes stung, but she stared at him firmly. “This isn’t about you and I, Ronald.”

“This isn’t about my feelings for you, don’t flatter yourself.” His voice cracked. “You’ve clearly lost your mind. You stop talking to us for months, and then you suddenly start shagging Malfoy? I won’t have this, Hermione.” It came out as a plea. “I won’t.”

Hermione had broken Ron’s heart more than once in the past few years. 

She didn’t know what had gone through his mind every time she’d refused his advances. She didn’t know what lies he’d told himself to nurture dreams for their future. 

But it was as clear as a daylight that he had remained hopeful through it all. The way he looked at her, now -- it was like she had single-handedly shattered his heart to pieces. 

“I’m not asking you for your acceptance, Ron,” she said softly. “I love him. I’m in love with him, and we’re together. That’s not going to change.”

His gaze flew to Harry, as if he could somehow make her take it back. “Are you hearing this?”

“He heard me,” said Hermione firmly, forcing him to look back at her. “Don’t speak as if I’m not here. You’re the one who needs to listen, Ron. I understand you’re hurt, but we’ve got more to deal with, right now, and--”

“No, this isn’t like you. This is completely mad,” interrupted Ron. “You might suddenly be fine with literally going to bed with Death-Eaters, but I’m not, and I won’t pretend to be,” he gritted out. “And you shouldn’t either, Harry.”

“You’re being a child,” she snapped, gripping the edge of the desk.

Ron met her gaze, anger flashing through his eyes.

He opened his mouth, and Hermione _knew,_ intuitively, that whatever he said next would open a new wound inside of her. 

She braced herself for it, the desk beneath her fingers keeping her steady.

But he stopped himself halfway through. 

Instead, Ron angrily whirled around, striding to the door before it fully sank in that he was choosing to _leave._

“Merlin.” She let out a humourless laugh, inaudible under the loud thud of the door hitting the frame. “Rinse and repeat. This is the bloody tents all over again. And he doesn’t have an horcrux to excuse his behavior this time.”

From behind her, Harry let out a loud snort. “That’s how you know he’ll come around.”

Hermione sighed and pushed away from the desk, picking up the folder Ron had barely touched before dropping to the ground. “I don’t owe him anything,” she muttered quietly.

“You don’t,” said Harry, and her eyes flew towards him. “What?”

“Why are you acting like you’re not on his side?”

Harry bit his lower lip and shrugged. “I want to talk to Malfoy at some point. Soon, if I can.”

“Excuse me?”

“I want to know if he’s taking care of you,” he snapped, and Hermione’s eyes widened. “And I know you don’t think you need that, but I think you do. And I screwed up our friendship halfway to hell at this point, I know that, but I love you, I always told you that. I’m not going to pretend I understand this, but there’s a lot I don’t know, and I--” He hesitated. “I’m sorry, Hermione”

Hermione inhaled sharply, and she didn’t-- she didn’t believe Harry. 

There were an innumerable amount of emotions going through her, and she couldn’t distinguish most of them, but knew that with absolute certainty.

She trusted Draco. And she trusted Ginny. But she did not trust Harry. 

“Thank you for apologizing,” she said flatly. “But we need to focus on stopping this madness, that’s the most important thing right now.”

Harry’s face fell, but despite his clear desire to protest, he nodded. “You said you have a plan?”

Hermione placed the folder back in her beaded purse. “For years, Robards and Douglass have been manipulating the media and the public to consolidate power. They used all of us for press, and they used the _Prophet_ to paint a beautiful picture to the Wizarding community.” She stood up. “We can’t get them from inside here, that’s unquestionable.”

He frowned. “And the media’s going to help with that?”

“People can't be angry at what they don’t know, Harry,” she said, her thoughts drifting to the witch she'd met in the lift. Her words were burned into Hermione’s mind, catapulting her fire-fueled determination. “And we don’t need them to be angry right now.”

“We don’t?”

She shook her head. “We need them to be bloody _furious_.”

_

“Lads, look at this,” said Daphne, dramatically strutting out of the dressing room. She spun around with a flourish, the large chiffon train of her eggplant-colored wedding gown flowing behind her. “Does this make you want to share a binding vow with me?”

Draco rolled his eyes, and Theo let out a snort, sending champagne flying everywhere. “Nott, you’re absolutely disgusting.”

“Bloody hell, this is ridiculous,” he chuckled, gesturing towards Daphne. “Look at her.”

She placed her hands in her hips. “I could be getting married in this,” she deadpanned. 

“Daphne, that dress is the ugliest piece of fabric that I’ve ever seen. It’s beyond atrocious,” grunted Draco. “It’s so ugly, I want to Scourgify my eyes until I’m bloody blind.”

Theo’s laughter echoed throughout the room, and Daphne beamed, her face splitting into an ear-to-ear smile. “Thank you, it’s perfect,” she said, walking back to the dressing room with an extra bounce in her step. “This will stall my mother for a week or two, at the very least.”

“That witch,” snickered Theo, standing up and walking towards the bar set up in the far corner of the boutique. It had taken Asta Greengrass a lot of cajoling to get Daphne a last-minute appointment at the Parisian luxury shop. “Hey, have I told you that Granger’s interview was fantastic? She’s got an edge. It’s kind of attractive.”

Draco smirked, choosing to ignore the last part of his comment. He’d gotten his copy of _The Serpent Wire_ that morning, and he’d read it a couple of times before Daphne and Theo had shown up at the flat to whisk him away. 

Granger had done beautifully -- she’d sounded intelligent, but her words carried just enough emotion to tug at the sympathy of the most apathetic readers. He knew she’d stir up the loathing of many, as well. 

But she meant to. 

It made his chest fill with pride. “I know,” he grinned.

Theo filled his flute of champagne and turned to him. “According to my sources, it certainly sparked a conversation. Some of the half-bloods were surprised by Rowle’s new law, and Granger’s interview was perfectly timed. They’re willing to throw some money towards Hestia’s campaign, but better yet--”

They were interrupted by Daphne coming out of the dressing room, back in her satin blouse and long skirt. “What’s better?”

“What’s better, my dear Daphne,” he pointed the flute towards her, “is that they’re willing to throw money at dear old me.”

Draco and Daphne exchanged confused looks before turning to Theo, who smirked at them like he was the only in on the joke. Which he was. Draco sighed, almost not wanting to ask. 

“Alright, I’ll bite,” said Daphne. “Why would they do that?” 

“Because to catch people’s attention, we need to make a lot of noise.” He waggled his eyebrows exaggeratedly. “And I can certainly make noise.”

“What are you going to do, Theo?”

“You’ll see,” he said with a shrug and a wink. “Granger might be the most popular activist in the Wizarding World, but trust me, she’s not the only one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally managed to answer almost all of your comments, I hate letting it pile up, but things have been kinda crazy. I read every single one of them several times, tho, and I'm really thankful <3
> 
> Real world's politics are stressful at the moment, I'm all aware, so I'm hoping this story's version of it manages to provide a escape. I urge you to take care of yourself, and take any break you need for your mental health's sake! And I know you guys have been waiting for Harry and Hermione's conversation for a while, so I hope you enjoyed it :)


	34. Someone's pulling a Gun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my gratitude to @jeparlepasfrancais for editing this into something readable!

“ **Someone's pulling a gun, and you're jumping into the middle of it.** You didn't think you'd feel this way.” - Planet of Love, Richard Siken

* * *

“Did you do this?” bellowed a voice from the other room.

Hermione’s eyes widened, and her head whirled in the direction of the voice, which continued to screech “ _Hermione!”,_ getting louder each second it went without reply. 

She wrapped her fingers around her wand, holding it outstretched as she tiptoed out of the kitchen. 

Her instincts went off like the chirping of a smoke alarm, instinctively scanning through all of the spells she’d memorized during the war. 

“ _I know you’re home_!” said the shrill voice, and Hermione slowly stepped into the living room, tightening her hold on her wand.

 _Stupefy_ was on the tip of her tongue. She opened her mouth to utter the spell, but before she could get the words out, she stopped dead in her tracks. 

“What the hell!” she yelled instead. “What in Merlin’s name is wrong with you?”

Harry Potter’s scowling face was sticking out of her fireplace, his reflection flickering beneath the golden flames. 

His eyes glimmered with enough intensity to send lesser Wizards running towards their brooms. At the sight of her, he shouted back, “Me? What’s wrong with _you?_ Did you do it?”

“Stop yelling at me!” she exclaimed. His expression grew more aggravated, and Hermione frowned, attempting to sound softer, but firm. “What am I being accused of?”

Her tone seemed to finally break through Harry’s enraged haze, and he faltered. “Blimey! If it wasn’t you, who was it?”

Annoyance began to prick in her throat, and her nostrils flared as she tried to keep a lid on it. “What’s going on?” she said. “I need to know _what_ I did so I can actually defend myself.”

“Listen,” he groaned, running a hand over his face. “I got called in last night because someone got past the wards in the Ministry’s atrium. They were inside for just a couple of minutes before the Aurors noticed, but it was long enough for them to do a lot of damage.”

“What damage?” she asked, feeling her heartbeat accelerate with trepidation. 

“Haven’t you read the Prophet yet?”

“I just woke up,” she protested, looking around until her gaze landed on the newspaper. 

She crossed the room in a few strides, snatching it up before returning to the fireplace. Then her gaze drifted to the cover.

Hermione instantly clamped a hand over her mouth, wanting to both giggle and let out an amazed gasp. The _Prophet_ ’s entire front page was taken up by a photo of the Ministry’s unusually empty atrium -- it displayed Robards’s campaign poster, a dark curtain drifting from the ceiling and cascading towards the floor. His slogan flashed beneath his mechanical smile, the word _Safer_ sliced through by a blood red line. 

It was replaced by another, blinking above it in a vibrant green. 

“For a _Racist_ Wizarding World?” 

“That’s not it,” said Harry, and Hermione eagerly flipped the page. 

There were more photographs -- scrawling graffiti that covered the fountain’s golden statues, marked window glasses, and blanketed every inch of stone wall. In an impressive display of magic that reminded Hermione of Fred and George, the words faded in and out in a synchronized rhythm. As if daring you to look away. 

_The Wizengamot is trying to keep us out_. _End Blood Supremacy. Who’s really in charge of the Ministry? Gawain Robards is a muggleborn hater._

“We still haven’t been able to remove this spell!” said Harry. Hermione barely registered his voice, too transfixed by the page. “There’s more of it all over Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade. This is mad, Hermione!”

She tore her eyes away from the photos, more inquisitive than mad as she stared at him. “And you think I did this? _Please,_ ” she scoffed. “Why do you care, anyway? They’re not lying.”

“Because I thought you'd at least _warn_ me before I got thrown to the media dementors,” spat Harry. “You told me to keep supporting Robards in public. And then _this_ happened. What am I supposed to say when they come to me for a statement?” 

“I had nothing to do with this,” she said, leaving out the fact she had a pretty good idea of who did. _Damn it_ , she cursed inwardly, trying to keep her emotions from crossing through her face. 

Theo had shown up late last night, claiming to be nursing a heartbreak over his latest doomed affair. He’d demanded a Fatherless Tossers Club meeting -- whatever that was supposed to mean -- before dragging a reluctant Draco out of the flat. 

That had been several hours ago, and while the sun had already risen high in the sky, she hadn’t worried about their continuing absence. 

She clearly should have. 

“Kinglsey’s after my arse and Robards has been owling me nonstop,” sighed Harry. “I thought if you were behind this, you could at least tell me how to get rid of that shite.” He ran a shaky hand through his already unruly hair. “What the hell do I do?”

Before Hermione could answer, feet smacked the foyer floor, someone nearly knocking over the vase of sunflowers on the hall table. 

She did a double take, wasting only a moment to catalogue Theo and Draco’s disheveled appearances before subtly shaking her head. 

“What was that?” 

“I bought Crookshanks this charmed ball of yarn that keeps floating around, he’s chasing it,” she said smoothly, returning her attention to Harry. From her peripheral vision, she saw the boys disappear with a loud _crack_. A second later, she heard the sound of something colliding against the kitchen’s counters. She let out a nervous chuckle. “You know how he is! Listen, Harry--”

“Ah, fuck,” he swore, his head dropping out of her eyeline. When he returned, his scowl had deepened. “Grisley just told me that Robards is here, I gotta go. He’ll want me to look into this, Hermione. If you’re not involved, we should at least do something--”

“Meet me at the diner near Gringotts at twelve o’clock. Bring your cloak,” she said, hoping he didn’t hear the Slytherins' laughable attempt at subtly. “Good luck with Robards!” 

“I don’t know if I can make it--”

“Find a way,” she said firmly, snuffing out the fire before he could protest. Once his image had dissipated, she marched towards her more pressing problem. “I will turn you both into beetles and trap you in jars if you don’t start talking. Right now.”

Draco immediately put his hands up. “I didn’t know what was happening until I got there.”

Theo only rolled his eyes, swallowing a spoonful of oatmeal before gracefully dabbing his mouth with a cloth napkin. 

Hermione felt a vein in her forehead throb. 

“After the shock wore off, he was ordering us around as if he’d thought up the whole operation! Bloody wanker. He’s not innocent.” 

Hermione heard Draco roughly kick Theo’s chair. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were planning to vandalize the bloody Ministry?” demanded Hermione. “You could go to Azkaban for this! Even if Harry’s on our side now, he won’t be able to protect you, which is why I didn’t tell him it was the two of you!”

Draco waved her off. “Relax, love. We were pretty careful.”

“The half-bloods hooked us up with galleons and people to help. We won’t get caught.” said Theo. “Besides,” he added, pushing his bowl away before shooting her a grin. “Out of sight, out of mind, Granger. We can’t let this be out of _anyone_ ’s mind right now.”

Hermione remembered fondly a time when Theo wasn’t a constant presence in her life. Sometimes, it felt like he’d been there forever -- the manic cornish pixie her strongest Freezing Charm couldn’t contain. 

“And now these random people know that you’re involved with this? What if it gets back to Douglass?”

“We wore masks,” said Draco. “They’ve got no idea who we are.”

Hermione scanned their faces for any sign of concern. They looked exhausted, but relaxed. 

Unfortunately, that didn’t do much to soothe her. “And who _are_ these people?”

“Your ordinary wizards and witches, doll,” said Theo, the casual tone of his voice tugging at her nerves. She took a menacing step forward, and his eyes widened. “I told Draco this! Lots of people have been angry for a while. They spent the past few years thinking they were the only ones that felt this way, until you gave that interview. I’m just providing the means.”

 _People like the witch in the Ministry’s lift_. “That interview sparked _this?_ ”

Theo shrugged, dragging his bowl of oatmeal towards him again. 

Hermione’s gaze fell on Draco, who had his arms behind his head, his legs stretched out. There was an unfamiliar quality in his gaze --

Maybe it was excitement. Adrenaline. Purpose.

Maybe it was all of it.

“They needed a push,” he said softly. “And you gave it to them.”

_

Gringotts was spared from Theo and Draco’s antics.

Still, trotting through the streets felt like entering an alternate universe. There was an almost visible tremor in the air, as if they were all holding their breaths -- she passed wizards stumbling around with their heads buried in copies of any newspaper still available, and whispered conversations surrounded her. 

More than once, she’d caught a glimpse of _The Serpent Wire_ , her stern expression plastered on the center of the cover. She read the headline: _Anti-Blood Supremacy Groups Take Action At Hermione Granger’s Urging_. 

Hermione felt like she was walking at the bottom of the parted red sea -- on each side of her, the Wizarding World divided into walls of water. She didn’t know if she was guiding people through their escape, or setting them up to get drowned. 

Thankfully, she didn’t have the time to dwell on it -- she’d left two Slytherin plotting at her dining table, and in front of her stood the purple door of a hole-in-the-wall diner. 

The chime of a bell announced her presence as soon as she crossed the threshold. From nowhere, a menu flew towards her outstretched hand. Hermione grabbed it before surveying the restaurant -- it was small, a couple of booths pushed against opposite walls and a few marble tables scattered between them, fighting for space to breathe. 

She threw a friendly smile towards the chef, who was poking his head out of the kitchen window, and made her way towards Harry’s familiar figure. 

He was slumped against a booth, the tension exuding from his body visible even from afar. His exhaustion grew more apparent as she sat across from him. “We’re not here to eat,” said Hermione. He lifted his bloodshot eyes upward, and she almost felt sorry for him. “Why are you wearing that?” she pointed to the ratty grey hat pulled low on his forehead. 

“If another reporter finds me, I’m scared I won’t be able to escape,” he grunted. “Bloody Padma was the worst, she walked into my office and had me pinned to the wall in 30 seconds flat.”

Hermione nervously clicked her nails on the table. “I’m not saying it’s going to be easy, but you need to hold the fort over there.”

“I have to _defend_ him,” he exhaled sharply. “They want me to throw you under the bus.”

“Do it,” she said, taking a moment to weigh the repercussions of her statement. _I’m not going to let anyone drown_. “They’re already putting this all on me, anyway. It doesn’t matter.”

“Robards will say you’re seeking revenge because you’re out of a job,” he said. 

She almost smiled. “Predictable.”

“He _will_ tear you apart, Hermione,” he said, concern flashing in his eyes. “He’s going to point out that you were unemployed after Hogwarts, and practically begged for your job at the Mental Health Center. He’ll casually mention that both Ron and I are successful aurors, and say that you just couldn’t live up to expectations. He’ll expose our fight to make you seem like a lonely witch eager for attention. And he’ll remind everyone that you went to Australia for suspicious reasons, and that you’ve never been the same since.” Hermione shook her head. “I read his speech. He’s going to make an appearance at the Ministry tonight.”

Hermione’s insides were twisted uncomfortably. 

Her post-war years were built around her efforts to not be seen, heard, or thought of. But now, she’d voluntarily stepped into the spotlight, and there was no coming back from it. 

_I’m not going to let anyone drown_ , she thought --

“Let him,” she said. “People already think that about me. I couldn’t care less.”

He let out a chuckle. “Really?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “Now get up, we’re not here to eat.” 

_

“I don't know what else to tell you, Mr. Potter,” scowled Gogrok. The center of his forehead shone with sweat, and he ran a long finger down the strands of thin hair spiking from the sides of his face. He was clearly done dealing with Harry. “My supervisor--”

“You know,” drawled Harry, “with everything that’s happened today, it’d be a shame if we had to bother Gawain over what’s obviously a mix up.” 

Gogrok’s eyebrows curved towards the bridge of his nose, forming a perfect v. 

“Mr. Robards failed to give you access to these files. We cannot be responsible for your department’s inability to follow procedures,” he exhaled, rubbing his nose.

Harry sneered. “Do you think I have the time for this?”

Hermione sighed internally. 

Their visit to the DMLE’s vault had been a failure. There was nothing in it other than dark artifacts they couldn’t store inside of the Ministry. She had figured Robards wouldn’t keep any proof of his embezzlement there, but she’d hoped luck would be on their side. 

Now, Hermione leaned against the wall of a large office situated in the back of Gringotts’s reception area, the invisibility cloak draped over her body camouflaging her from unwanted attention. Harry had spent the past ten minutes trying to talk a Goblin out of doing his job, his annoyance growing as realization set in -- 

Robards and Douglas were two steps ahead of them.

“I understand your time is valuable, Mr. Potter,” said Gogrok patiently. “But procedures must be followed--”

“In case you haven’t noticed, Robards is busy running for Minister of Magic,” snapped Harry. “He doesn’t have _time_ to deal with bureaucracy right now. Now, do you want to be responsible for compromising an ongoing investigation?”

Gogrok calmly peered at him over his glasses.

“Like I told you, Mr. Potter,” he said sternly. “You can simply owl him asking for his--”

Harry leaned over the desk. “You know how many banks all over Britain are dying to make a deal with the Ministry?” he hissed. “It’s not the nineties anymore. Gringotts is no longer the only bank around. Perhaps I’ll owl Robards to recommend moving our business elsewhere.”

Gogrok intertwined his palms, resting his elbows over the desk as his long fingers seemed to dig painfully into his skin. Harry didn’t seem to notice. “Robards will appreciate Gringotts’s generosity in overlooking an formality that would take him away from handling such a difficult moment in his campaign. I’ll make sure to mention it.” 

For a moment, silence hung over the office. 

Hermione was sure Harry was about to stand up and declare this mission a failure, but Gogrok leapt out of his chair, yanking open a drawer. He retrieved a shining silver key, marching out of the room without a word.

Hermione took the opportunity to step towards the desk. 

She had casted Muffliato over herself, but made sure to move stealthily as peeked at the parchments lying on top of Gogrok’s desk. She quickly ran her eyes over them, face twisting with confusion when she saw they were filled with arithmancy formulas and unfamiliar runes. 

When she heard his approaching footsteps, she shifted away, pressing her back against the wall. 

“Alright, now, Mr. Potter,” said Gogrok solemnly,levitating a thin stack of parchments towards the desk. “These are the records from this month’s transactions. You can’t take them with you, and unfortunately, I can give you the full archive only once Mr. Robards authorizes access. This is the most I can do for you.” Gogrok placed the silver key by the edge of the desk before pushing the parchments towards Harry. 

“I recognize most of this,” he said out loud, more for Hermione’s benefit than his own. “Office supplies, employee travel expenses, new Auror equipment. A whole lot of Honeydukes candy they begged me to approve for a get-together,” he droned on.

Stress rose up Hermione’s throat, and she barely suppressed the urge to rip the parchments from Harry’s hands and read them herself. 

Then he paused. “What are these transfers to _Laurel Tree? Golden-Hawk? Starbright?_ ” he frowned. “Are these real names? I didn’t approve any of this.”

Gogrok grimly reached for the parchments, letting out a low hum. “Those are automatic transfers. Every couple of months the DMLE sends that amount to these accounts. It’s been like that for years, Mr. Potter. Maybe you should review your department’s procedures, like I suggested.”

“It’s over twenty thousand galleons per account,” said Harry, too distracted to fully absorb the goblin’s unsubtle dig. “I need to have access to those accounts.”

“They’re not Ministry accounts, Mr. Potter--”

“Whose accounts are those?”

“That’s classified information--”

Hermione slowly dragged her feet towards the desk, wincing at the increasing volume of Harry’s voice. “I’m the Head of Department of Law Enforcement! There’s _no_ classified information--”

“Gringotts is a privately owned enterprise, Mr. Potter--”

Before she could second-guess herself, she snatched the silver key. She stood completely still for a long moment, holding her breath as she waited for any indication Gogrok had noticed. 

“Do I need to get a warrant--” 

The sound of their argument faded away as Hermione headed towards the entrance Gogrok had previously disappeared into, blood pounding in her ears. 

As she rushed down the empty hallway, her feet tangled with the cloak, almost causing her to trip. She roughly kicked it away, sneaking a look over her shoulders as she stopped in front of a tiny, iron door.

She didn’t waste any time before squatting down and pushing the key into the hole. She sighed in relief when she heard the telling click, the door falling open with a soft push of her hand.

Her excitement lasted just the time it took for her to realize there was no way her hips were sliding past an entryway made to fit a Goblin’s size. 

Hermione bit back a curse and snatched her wand from her pocket. Her first attempt at an _Engorgio_ failed, the spell ricocheting as the sound of an alarm going off echoed all the way from the front office. 

“ _Dammit_ ,” she said, turning the wand towards herself. She gulped roughly and muttered _Reducio_ under her breath.

The spell wasn’t built to be cast upon a human. 

Hermione could recite its side effects in her sleep, and while they danced in her mind as the tingle began to seep beneath her skin like a knife being pushed into her spine, she realized _knowing_ something wasn’t the same as _feeling_. 

Her head throbbed and she could hear loud cracks as her limbs began to move unnaturally, leaving her sore and waiting to drop into the ground. 

She pushed every painful sensation away from her mind, dragging the cloak after her as she raced through the door. Gogrok had yet to show up, and Hermione hoped that meant Harry was successful at averting his attention. 

The room wasn’t large, but it was covered in bookshelves, lining up the walls and almost reaching the high ceiling. Innumerable documents were catalogued by a system characterized by runes Hermione didn’t immediately recognize. 

“Accio _Laurel Tree_ records,” she whispered. It was a long, nervous moment before she heard the sound of a folder dislodging itself from its place somewhere behind her. Hermione turned just in time to catch it in her outstretched hand. She held it under her arm before muttering, “Accio _Golden-Hawk’s_ records _.”_

Before summoning the next one, she glanced towards the door, her chest tightening when she saw an angry Goblin running towards her. 

Hermione abruptly closed the door before snatching the cloak from the floor and securing her hold on the folders. 

She apparated a second before the door burst wide open.

_

Hermione crashed painfully into the ground. 

The cloak and folders landed messily around her, and she took a moment to slow her racing heart, her lungs squeezing painfully as she hyperventilated. 

She still felt adrenaline coursing through her veins. She tried to blink away the sudden blur in her eyes, Draco’s loud voice intensifying her newly acquired migraine. 

Through squinted eyes, she watched him loom over her, his nose scrunched up. She couldn’t quite decipher his expression, but his harsh “What the fuck” was enough of an indication of his feelings. 

“ _Engorgio_ me, please,” she said weakly. “I can’t do it right now.”

“You’re my bloody Boggart come to life right now,” he huffed, pointing his wand towards her. Before he casted the spell, he shot her an apologetic look. “This is going to hurt, love.”

Hermione groaned out loud as she felt her limbs begin to swiftly realign, the uncomfortable set of her bones making her jaw ache. She pressed her eyes tightly and balled her hands into fists, Draco’s soothing words lost under the sound of her heart pounding in her chest. 

She breathed through her nose, a bone-deep ache draping over her body.

“Can you stand up?” 

Uncertainty engulfed her, but she nodded, wrapping her fingers around his and letting him pull her up. It didn’t take her long to realize she’d be better off on the floor.

“I was better at this just a few years ago,” she whined, letting her forehead hit his chest. 

“I thought you were going to _lunch_ with Scar-Head.”

She gasped. “I left him at Gringotts by himself! I need to owl him.”

“Gringotts?” frowned Draco. “Don’t be daft. There’s no way you’re going to a public owlery right now,” he said, looping his arms around her waist before guiding her up the stairs. 

“But he’ll worry!”

“I’ll bloody owl him myself,” he snapped, his gentle touch contrasting with the sharp tone of his voice. Hermione chose not to complain -- her energy had swiftly bled from her body, leaving her pliable and shaky. 

She moaned in satisfaction when her back hit the mattress, struggling to keep herself awake. 

Draco sat on the corner of the bed, placing his arm beside her head as his gaze slowly ran down her body. His eyes weren’t darkened by its usual heat, instead shining with a tint of concern she had only seen a handful of times. 

“I somehow forgot how reckless you can be,” he said under his breath. “Why did you _Reducio_ yourself?”

“I needed to get inside of a records room.” She reached to smooth the crease between his brows, and Draco wrapped his fingers around her wrist, giving it a reassuring squeeze before placing a kiss on her warm skin. “I think I’ve gotten us proof of Robards’s embezzlement.”

That made him pause. “You sure?”

“The Goblins encrypt their records with runes, so I need to figure it out so I can be sure--” She tried to sit up, but Draco carefully pressed her back into the mattress. “Don’t start.”

“You’re not the only one with brains in this relationship,” he said petulantly. “I’ll take a look at it. You take a sleeping draught and rest.”

“You spent all night up,” she protested.

“Helping Theo vandalize government property, not casting a dangerous spell on myself,” he scoffed. “You and I are a team, Granger. When will you get that through that enormous brain of yours?”

Hermione’s heart fluttered like butterfly wings. 

“Don’t forget to owl Harry, please,” she muttered, resting more comfortably against the pillows. 

The last thing she felt before she succumbed to sleep was Draco’s fingers smoothing her hair, his warm breath against her face as he bent down to place a kiss on her forehead.

_

Draco had barely begun examining the runes when he heard the sound of the floo being activated. 

He pushed back from the dining table, shoving his fists inside his pockets as he unhurriedly walked towards the living room. 

He wasn’t surprised to see Harry Potter’s face -- he was sure that if he’d been given access to the wards, he’d be in Draco’s living room instead of a floo call away.

It had barely been thirty minutes since he’d owled Potter about Granger’s condition. His words had been simple and direct, just enough to appease her. 

“Is she still sleeping?” 

Draco crossed his arms over his chest. “Haven’t you done enough damage, Potter?”

“I didn’t _ask_ her to steal classified records, Malfoy.” The tone of his voice sent Draco’s previously controlled temper flaring. “I don’t know what you’re sneering at me for, but it’s not my fault she’s hurt.”

Draco chuckled darkly. “She wouldn’t have put herself in danger if you hadn’t handed the proof to the enemy like the clueless arsehole you are.”

Potter’s face hardened. “She told you about that?” he gritted out.

“She tells me everything,” fired back Draco, his chin lifting slightly.

“I had no idea what was happening with Robards, there’s no way I could--”

Draco’s laughter abruptly cut off his rant. His dislike for Potter had evolved over the past few months. After the war, he hadn’t given him more than a fleeting thought. But now, his mind overtaken with memories of Granger -- quietly devastated, eyes swollen, telling him about all the ways her best friend had hurt her -- he felt his chest swell with the need to lash out. 

“Granger tried to warn you about Robards several times,” he said quietly. The angrier Potter grew, the calmer Draco felt. “You’ve got no one but yourself to blame here.”

“That’s between Hermione and I,” snapped Potter. “You know what, Malfoy? Fuck your judgmental arse. You being with her doesn’t mean I have to listen to the bullshit coming out of your mouth.”

Draco arched an eyebrow. “With the shit you pulled over the past few months--”

Potter cut him off, spitting out his words with poor veiled anger. “Hermione gets to judge me for that. _You_ don’t, you bloody git. Considering your previous occupation, you don’t have a leg to stand on. I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt here, even if I can’t understand what the bloody hell she’s seen in you.”

“You know, Potter,” drawled Draco, knowing his tone would be sure to grate on his nerves. Predictably, Potter’s face turned an alarming shade of red. “Your little dig about my past would work if Granger was worried about it. She isn’t.”

“Maybe she isn’t thinking straight.”

“Brave of you to claim you know what she’s thinking,” said Draco, crossing his arms over his chest in a movement filled with easy confidence. “This from her supposed best friend, who doubted her for months and drove her out of her own house.”

Potter flinched. “I didn’t ask her to leave. In fact--”

“You made her want to,” said Draco. “You made her feel like she couldn’t trust you, and you repeatedly pushed her towards Weasel, a tosser who can’t take no for an answer. You and that entire family like to think you have the moral high ground, but I’ve never pretended to be something I’m not. Granger has made the decision to be with me with her eyes wide open, so don’t pretend you’ve got a clue about our relationship.”

He could see shame in Potter’s eyes, but it wasn’t enough to make him back down. “That may be the case, but _my_ friendship with Hermione is none of your bloody business,” he said defensively.

“Her business is _my_ business,” he chuckled dryly. “Get used to it, because I’m not going anywhere. You should think twice before trying to barge into my house to play protective best friend. I won’t hesitate before putting you on your arse.”

That made Potter exhale a deep sigh. “That’s not what I’m doing. I’m not actually trying to make things harder for her. You might not believe me, and frankly, I don’t give a shite if you don’t, but I want to fix things with Hermione. I’ve known her--”

“I don’t think you know her.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “Fine, I don’t know her as well anymore. What the fuck do you want, Malfoy? For me to admit that you’re closer to her than I am? You can sleep with your eyes bloody closed, I’m not trying to take up your spot.”

Draco let out a laugh. “Fuck, and your lot has the audacity to call me arrogant. I’m not bloody threatened by or jealous of you, Potter.”

“I think you’re protesting too much.”

“And I think _you_ need to fucking check yourself,” said Draco loudly. “You didn’t see Granger after your fight. I _did_. I held her, I comforted her and I listened to her. She picked up the pieces herself, but I was the one who was there to see it all happen. So believe me, if I thought she wouldn’t kill me for it, I’d hex your bloody arse to whatever hole you crawled out of and make sure you’d never come close to her again.”

“You’re not--”

“But she doesn’t want that,” sighed Draco. He narrowed his eyes. “Get your fucking act together, Potter. Earn her forgiveness, and make sure you don’t pull any of that shite again, because if you do, I’ll come after you. Whether she wants it or not.” 

It came out as something between a threat and a plea. Potter didn’t say anything at first, as if he was turning the words over in his head. Draco longed to take it all back and take the lower road -- the one where he physically wiped Potter’s superiority right off his face.

But this wasn’t about _him_. It was hard to remember, but it was the truth. Granger was sleeping soundly upstairs, and he wouldn’t interrupt her recovery just so he didn’t have to deal with bloody Harry Potter. 

Truth be told, he was more afraid of the repercussions of waking her up than whatever he’d get from threatening an Auror. 

Potter cleared his throat. 

“So -- about those files,” he said awkwardly. 

“They’re encrypted,” he snapped, scowling at Potter. “I was going to take a look at them before you interrupted me.”

“Honestly, Malfoy, how was I supposed to know?” said Potter, rolling his eyes. His previous anger was absent, and there was a contradicting mix of confusion and understanding glowing in his eyes. Like he didn’t quite know where this sense of _acknowledgement_ left them. 

There was no kinship between them, nor feelings of respect. Draco didn’t want it, and he doubted Potter was eager for anything close to it. 

But he vowed to himself, right then, that he’d remain watchful -- Potter might have history on his side, but it was Draco’s duty to protect Granger. He might fail in everything else, but he wouldn’t fail _that._

“Maybe you should return to whatever hole you crawled out of and leave Hermione and I to it.”

“Or _maybe_ ,” offered Potter. “You could let me go there and help you both out.”

“As if you know anything about bloody runes--”

“I’m not daft, Malfoy. We went to school together.”

“Please, do not compare us.”

“As if you could ever compare to me.”

Draco opened his mouth to bite back a retort --

“I bloody got that bastard!” bellowed out Theo, apparating into the middle of the living room with his special brand of flourish. His gaze drifted from Draco to the fireplace, and he momentarily froze with confusion. 

It didn’t last longer than a fleeting moment, elation overtaking his features before either of them could offer an explanation. 

“Well, hello there, Potter. Are you ready to witness my fucking brilliance?”

_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter had my lil attempt at something a bit more action packed, lol! I also hope you enjoyed draco and harry's chat ;)
> 
> Yall, your comments made my week! I'll answer them as soon as I have time. This author is a tiny bit overworked atm: juggling final classes, drafting a thesis project (which I'm about to go back to, btw, WISH ME LUCK), a part-time job, freelance work, keeping my house clean lmao, obvs I haven't had time to write in a bit. That means I'm taking a two-week hiatus from posting! It's just enough time so I can catch up on my writing, give my most awesome beta @jeparlepasfrancais time to edit. The goal's to give you the best writing I possibly can, so I don't want to rush!
> 
> I really hope you understand! And hey, it's enough time to reread anything you might've forgotten as we begin to close the arcs ;) we'll be back to our normal program @ december 4th, I pinky promise!
> 
> You can always reach out to me @ masterofinfinities.tumblr.com! See you guys soon! Don't give up on this <3


	35. Monster is Different than it Used To Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was edited by the always amazing @jeparlepasfrancais. I'm always grateful.

“I wanted to talk about monsters and terror, not war and terrorism. **But (...) monster means something different than it used to.** Not only are we trapped in our bodies, drowning in gravity, but we’re stuck in our time, too. Down here, in these years in which we live. (...) For two weeks, I watched the constant coverage on the television. I couldn’t get my head around it. It seemed too simple, too one-sided, too much of a good versus evil thing. **I am wary of the simple.** Perhaps I am being unreasonable, but I still believe that **there are answers that aren’t yes or no.** ” Black Telephone, Richard Siken

_

Draco spent a long time staring at the photos. 

He was almost transfixed, watching the figures move over and over through the frame. He was doing his damndest not to let his perspective be tainted by the anger simmering low in his gut, _just like Snape had taught him_ , but he could feel expectation rise up his chest. 

Theo had made a spectacle of presenting them, waking up Granger and firecalling Daphne, insisting she come to the flat _this instant_ as if he’d single-handedly found the holy grail they’d been so desperate for. When they were all present, Theo fanned out the photos on the table in front of them and took a step back, watching them crowd around with a self-satisfied smile like the cat who’d caught the canary.

At first glance, the photos weren’t particularly damaging. 

The camera had captured the scene from outside the window, distant enough it was impossible to discern its location. But the photographer’s sharp focus on Douglass’s face made his presence undeniable, like he had been observed through a magnifying glass. 

In the first photo, Douglass sipped from a tumbler of firewhiskey, his expression flat as he talked to someone just on the edge of the lens. 

In the next photo, Robards came into view, looking regal and self-assured in his formal robes. Plastered on his face was the same smirk that graced campaign posters all over Wizarding Britain, and he waved his hand to call someone forward --

It was the inaudible proof of a conversation between two powerful wizards. Easily excusable, and certainly not enough to raise any eyebrows. 

It was the next photo that made things interesting. 

Robards wasn’t calling _someone_ over. But multiple people.

In the next few frames, Rookwood, Rowle, Goyle, Rosier, and Fawley slowly grouped around Robards and Douglass, clad in dark robes and clutching glasses of firewhiskey. Then Yaxley walked into view, his ashen face making Draco’s grip on the photo tighten. 

As if they needed one of the most notorious Death-Eaters to tie up the package with a pretty bow.

Draco had no idea how Theo had gotten these photos in his hands, but _Merlin_ \--

His smile only faltered when he saw Pansy move into view. She ran her long nails up and down Robards’s arm, laughing at something he’d said with a knowing expression in her eyes. 

Draco gave a subtle glance around the room. Granger was absorbed in the runes covering the Gringotts parchments. Potter was to the side of the flat, locked in conversation with Daphne, who had her hands tightly clamped over her knee, as if trying to physically contain her nerves. 

Before he could think too hard about it, he grabbed the photo and vanished it out of the room. 

“ _Hey_.” Draco let out a sharp intake of breath, his expression immediately smoothing out. But when he turned to Granger, she wasn’t looking at him. “Can you come here, Daph?”

Daphne rose from the couch and slowly walked towards Granger, her balled fists betraying her discomfort. 

Draco observed them with a slightly clenched jaw, and when Daphne peered over Granger’s shoulder, her already pale face blanched. “Is that--”

“That’s yours and Astoria’s information,” muttered Granger, low, as if she was afraid that talking louder would disturb the non-existent peace in the room. “He used codenames to set up the accounts, but the _runes_ \-- He needed to provide real identities to make the deal legitimate with the goblins. So, it looks like--”

“My sister and I are embezzling money,” said Daphne through gritted teeth. “He set up his daughters to take the fall for his mess. I’m going to throw up.” 

“Daphne--” started Draco, but Theo, who had been dozing against the staircase, interrupted him. 

“Are you really shocked?” he snorted. 

“ _Theo_ ,” snapped Granger, turning to Daphne with a gentler expression. She tentatively reached for the witch’s hand, and when she didn’t shy away from the touch, she intertwined their fingers. “This is bad, but you and Astoria have no direct connection to Robards. It won’t be hard to see who’s really behind this.”

“People believe whatever they’re sold, Hermione. If they convince the public that it was us, our reputations will be ruined. I’d be--” Her breath hitched. 

“We shouldn’t use those files,” piped up Potter, slowly crossing the room. He stuck out like a sore thumb, but it clearly didn’t affect his confidence. “We’ll be fine with the photos. We can bury the rest.”

“We’re not your underlings, Potter,” drawled Draco. “Though your chivalry is commendable, if you ignore your bleeding heart for a second you’ll realize that while these photos look bad, they’re excusable. Those bank statements were set up under Robards’s administration. They’ll be impossible to get around.”

“Draco’s right,” said Granger, squeezing Daphne’s hand between hers. “We need both.”

“And you’re willing to risk your friend being framed?” snapped Potter, narrowing his eyes at Draco. “Even for a Slytherin, that’s cold-blooded.”

Draco rolled his eyes, leaning back in the chair. Something harsher was on the tip of his tongue, an accusation he knew it wasn’t his place to make. 

As if sensing it, Granger shot him a look. 

“You're too nice," said Draco, instead, in a dry voice. “I thought the Gryffindors’ whole thing was about sacrificing themselves for the cause.”

“Not when there are other ways to do it,” said Potter. 

“There isn’t another way,” said Daphne, untangling her hand from Hermione’s in order to grab the parchment. Her eyes skimmed over its contents, as if she could change it with the sheer force of her will. She sighed. “I should’ve escaped to America when I had the chance. Silly me.”

Taking it for the consent that it was, Draco gave her a sharp nod, beginning to gather the photos and parchments in his arms. “We’ll owl these to Zabini, _anonymously_ , of course.” 

Theo and Draco began to pull on their robes, leaving Granger to turn to Daphne, her features set in a hard expression of determination. “You okay?” asked Granger. Daphne nodded. 

“When this is over, I hope my father goes to Azkaban.”

_

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” muttered Granger, her hold in Draco’s hand tightening as they walked down the street. “We really shouldn’t be doing this.”

“You told me the glamour’s solid,” he whispered from the corner of his mouth. He looped his arm around Granger’s waist, keeping her from crashing into a wizard jogging in the direction of the Ministry. “For Merlin’s sake--”

“It’s _solid,_ but I didn’t think there would be so many people here,” she said, trying to inch away from him. Draco didn’t let her, stepping behind her as they finally came to a halt. They were in the far back of the crowd, but the stage was set up high, guaranteeing every single person could see Robards and hear whatever came out of his mouth.

A couple of feet away from them, he caught sight of Theo’s unruly hair peeking out from under a baseball hat. As if sensing Draco’s gaze, he turned towards them, shooting them a wink before elbowing his way towards the atrium’s entrance. 

People were crowding the streets, groups shouting rabid protests from behind the line of reporters, who were jumping over each other in their eagerness to get the best shot. 

He had never seen anything like it -- energy sizzled in the air, sending goosebumps down his arms, the adrenaline making him want to rush forward with the rest of them. 

The same phrases he’d charmed into the walls of the Ministry covered posters that floated high above the crowd and were scrawled across more than a few t-shirts. 

Most people seemed merely curious, trying to understand the circus going up in flames around them. But the rest -- Draco had no idea who these people were, but he felt his chest swell with pride that he was somehow part of them. 

In contrast, the witch in front of him was nervously bouncing on her feet. He was too in tune with Granger to ignore the waves of anxiety rolling off of her. 

So he did the first thing he thought of -- he pulled her against his chest and locked his hands over her stomach. Their points of contact linked them like a DNA strand -- his warmth calmed her, and hers calmed him, too. 

Granger relaxed against him, and he rested his chin on the top of her head, his gaze set forward.

“You’re enjoying this,” she stated. 

“Holding you in my arms in front of everyone?” he said. It didn’t matter that Granger's features were altered and that her face was hidden under the hood of an oversized jumper. It didn’t matter that his platinum strands were charmed dark brown. They were still them. And it meant something.

“Just like you enjoyed wreaking havoc with Theo,” sighed Granger. “You’re taking too many risks for someone who’d rather protect himself.”

Draco chuckled. “Something’s got me feeling braver, love,” he muttered, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. 

She shivered, and despite being nothing but two dots lost in the middle of a crush of people, it made him feel like they were all alone. 

And then, breaking the spell like a bludger to the head, Robards walked up the stage, his moves slow and deliberate as he glanced at the ground beneath the platform.

The roar of the crowd grew louder, and Draco and Hermione were almost knocked over by a group trying to rush forward. A unison of shouts rose up at him, demanding _“Are you stealing from us?”_ like a chorus, impossible to discern where it began and ended.

Draco did not shout. But the smirk on his lips was telling. 

Robards’s eyes surveyed the crowd for a long moment. His lips pressed in a thin line as he crossed his arms behind his back. His forehead was wrinkled in concentration, but there was no sign of nervousness in his stance. 

No. 

He looked as if he was feeding off the crowd’s energy. 

Draco’s stomach dropped. He felt Granger’s chest rise and fall rapidly, her breath hitching when Robards’s eyes narrowed slightly before smoothing out his expression.

“They’re playing you for fools,” he bellowed, his voice gaining a sudden urgency. The crowd went silent. “I don’t blame you for doubting me. I understand that a well-constructed lie can be almost impossible to question, no matter how unfounded it is. In fact, I’m _glad_ that you’re asking questions, it shows me that the Wizarding World is ready to reach the standard it was always meant to.”

“What the fuck is he saying?” muttered Draco, and Hermione’s hand rested on top of his. 

“I’ve known Douglass Greengrass for years. He has worked closely with many departments, offering his expertise and making the Ministry a better, more well-informed law enforcement body. I had absolutely no knowledge of his alleged financial irregularities, nor did anyone else in the Ministry, including Harry Potter, my successor as head of the DMLE.”

“What’s he doing?” said Hermione slowly. “Does he expect us to believe any of that?” 

“As for the photographs. While my legal team believes many of them may have been fabricated, I can assure you that any meetings I had with Douglass and other Ministry employees were wholly above the board. I take seriously my duty to guide us towards a Safer Wizarding World. That mission may have started with the phenomenal success of the Mental Rehabilitation Center, but it does _not stop there._ ” He punctuated each of his words with a passion that unsettled Draco. _Would I believe him, if I didn’t know better?_ “From the beginning, I’ve fought to rehabilitate dangerous individuals. That’s why I fought the war. It’s why I’m going to be running for Minister of Magic come February.”

A low mummer ran through the crowd. Draco glanced around, noting that despite the angry posters flashing above them, most of the people were attentive, nodding along with Robards. 

“Douglass Greengrass has never been affiliated with anything nefarious,” said Robards loudly. “He’s an honorable wizard and a valued consultant. I mean, how many galleons can fit in his vault?” he chuckled. To Draco’s horror, several people around him laughed. “You have questions for me, so let me tell you what I know. I _know_ that all this started when a witch who hasn’t lived up to expectations and was recently fired from her job decided to make some noise. A witch who never hid how unreasonably angry she is. Who ran and complained to a magazine that, before choosing me as a target, had never broken a major story or found any kind of success,” he said. “I know some feel the need to sabotage others out of jealousy, or pride, or greed, but we’re smarter, and we’re stronger, and we _won’t be fooled_. I believe in _you_ , and I ask you to believe in _me_. Do _not_ fall prey to those who act no better than a society we’ve proven is not equal to us.”

“So thank you for coming here today to _ask_ me questions. You’ve already proven you’re better than them, who rather than air their grievances like wizards, scribbled profanity all over the Ministry like beasts I _know_ we’re better than them. I urge you to not trust those who are too marred by their origins to understand what the Wizarding Society needs. This is _not_ about blood status. We all know what happens when we stop focusing on our issues to give attention to people who should try to integrate into our culture, not force us to conform to theirs.”

Granger’s breath became ragged, and Draco pulled her closer, his jaw set so hard he was afraid it’d snap. “If you want the Wizarding World to remain magic, you’ll stay with me. If you want a safer Wizarding World, you’ll stay with me,” finished Robards, nodding to the crowd once before apparating off of the stage. 

_

“What did your father tell you?” asked Theo. 

After Robards’ speech, they’d all gathered at Nott Manor. 

The feeling of victory had long departed the group, leaving them feeling all kinds of morose. 

Draco was chain-smoking, ignoring the irritated glances Granger was shooting his way. At least he wasn’t throwing back shot after shot like Theo, who wasn’t as immune to disappointment and insecurity as he liked to pretend to be. 

He wasn’t sure who had called Potter and Weaselette over, but he was doing his best to ignore them. Draco had many visions of how his life would turn out, but his brain wasn’t creative enough to conjure up a scene as ridiculous as him commiserating with his childhood enemies. 

“He told me not to worry my pretty little head about it,” said Daphne, nursing a glass of elf-made wine. She flicked her wrist, watching the burgundy liquid swirl around, the color matching her stained lips. “That he’d take care of it,” she added, almost as an afterthought. 

“Your father’s a condescending arse,” said Ginny Weasley.

“Tell me about it,” muttered Daphne, looking mildly amused. 

Silence fell over the group again. 

Theo’s radio was sitting on top of the dinner table, crackling with low static while they waited for the program to begin. Douglass’s interview announcement felt like their opponent’s final move in a chess match. Not quite checkmate, but close enough to feel like they were hanging on by a thread--

Draco knew they needed to hear it before taking their next steps, but he’d never felt so uncomfortable, his skin tingling with the urge to move. 

Granger had mostly retreated into herself -- for a moment, Draco had worried she’d fallen into one of her moods, but her expression was determined rather than withdrawn as if her mind was running at too fast a pace for anyone else to follow. 

Without warning, she stood up from her armchair, disturbing the quiet for the time it took her to pluck Draco’s lit cigarette from his fingers, vanishing it out of the room. 

He didn’t protest, strangely charmed by the way she shamelessly got into his space, burrowing her face into his neck as she relaxed beside him on the couch. He liked that Granger had stopped hesitating when looking for comfort. That she knew he’d give it to her. 

“We haven’t lost yet, Granger,” he said, brushing a kiss against her temple. 

“This doesn’t feel like winning, either,” she muttered. 

Draco felt Potter’s gaze on them, but he brushed off the sting of it. 

Finally, the radio came to life. A perky voice exclaimed a loud greeting before introducing the program with a cheerful tune. 

“We’ve got a very special guest today, everyone. A man who surely has been on your mind lately! _Good evening_ , Mr. Greengrass--” continued the presenter.

While worded differently, Douglass’s and Robards’s statements were so similar in content that it left no doubt they’d decided to handle the crisis as a united front. Halfway through it, Draco lifted his hand to shut off the radio, but Granger’s fingers wrapped around his wrist before he could reach it. 

Theo was cursing under his breath, and Daphne looked ready to flee. He couldn’t quite decipher Potter’s expression, but his tight grip on the Weaselette’s hand was telling enough. 

“This all seems rather desperate,” said Douglass, in an exaggeratedly soft timbre. “Gawain has led the polls since he announced his candidacy, and now that the election’s approaching, the opposition has mounted a last-ditch effort to besmirch his name. It says something about the wrath of a scorned witch, doesn’t it?” 

Granger jerked at that, and Draco followed her gaze to Potter, whose face had turned a worrying shade of red. 

The radio presenter chuckled. “Do you think Hermione Granger’s behind this?”

“I don’t know her personally. But protests? Vandalizing public property? That’s a very Muggle way of dealing with things. And we know it doesn’t work. We’ve got a better system in place.”

“Do you mean the Wizengamot?”

“Certainly,” replied Douglass. “But I think we should focus on something more urgent. Those files contain the names of my sweet daughters, who I’ve already stated wouldn’t hurt a fly and are far from the masterminds people are portraying them as. But why don’t we talk about what the article really tells us?”

“Hmm,” muttered the presenter, sounding confused. “Sure, Mr. Greengrass. What would that be?”

“ _The Serpent Wire_ mentioned how strange it was that most of the wizards Gawain and I met had been through the _Mental Rehabilitation Center_ ’s Death-Eater program. Gawain has always been proud of the MRC’s accomplishments, but he wasn’t responsible for overseeing it. Neither was I. And while I truly believe that these young men were successfully rehabilitated, it was Bart Hughman who was responsible for their treatment.” 

Theo’s guffaw broke through the tension. “Did he just throw Hughman under the bus?”

“And he called me _sweet_ ,” muttered Daphne. 

After that, the program came to an end. Granger stood up, the beginnings of a grin spreading across her face. “I can work with that,” she said. “I know Hughman, and that man might be up to his neck in this, but he’s a selfish bastard. He’s going to want to save himself.”

“This could become a _he said, he said_ situation,” said Theo. He cracked his fingers and stood up beside Granger. “I’ve got some nasty posters going up all over Britain by the time you wake up tomorrow, but getting the word out can only accomplish so much.”

“That was _you_?” exclaimed Potter. “Hermione!”

“Oh, shut up, Harry,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It can’t hurt to try,” she told Theo, sounding unsure. 

“What if I had a way to get closer to Robards?” said Draco slowly.

Potter shot him a sidelong glance. “Closer than I am?” 

He didn’t reply right away, his mind drifting to the photo he’d hidden in his drawer. 

“Theo will do his thing, and Granger will talk to Hughman,” he stated, brushing off their confused expressions. “And Potter will pull his support from Robards’s campaign.”

“And what are _you_ going to do?” asked Daphne. 

“I’m going to talk to Pansy.”

_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaack! I hope everyone is well. Can you believe it's already xmas season?
> 
> My break was super succesful! I'm back on track with my writing, and happy to be able to post again. From here on out, we're sticking to our schedule of a new post every Friday until we finish up the story in January!! 
> 
> I missed hearing from you guys, so please let me know your thoughts on the comments :) as always, you're the fuel to this writer <3 hope you like this


	36. There is No Exit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was edited by @jeparlepasfrancais, as always, she fucking rocks.

“The world is full of things that are trying to kill you (...) As soon as your eyes are shut **we will begin to plot your demise.** If I were you, were smart, I’d stay awake, ever vigilant and terrified. He has no power. **I am being warned and there is no exit.** ” The Definitive Version, Richard Siken 

* * *

“I don’t know what you think you’re going to accomplish here,” said Pansy in lieu of a greeting.

Draco’s mouth twitched into a smile, and he propped his hip against the corner of her desk, watching as she slowly rose from her seat, the wrinkle in her aristocratic nose the only indication she was unnerved by his appearance. 

“Can’t I pay a friend a visit?”

Pansy’s eyes narrowed to slits, and she studied him for a half-second before walking around the desk, brushing against his side as she made a beeline for the lounge set up in the corner of her father’s former study. “Would you like some tea?”

“Will you poison it?”

She shot him a look over her shoulder, baring her teeth. “That’s a risk you’ll have to take.”

Draco snorted and followed her. The Parkinson Manor revamp had been Pansy’s way of exacting revenge against her father. What used to be filled with dark wood and leather Chesterfield sofas had been replaced by soft Victorian pinks and French écru. 

Her fingers skimmed over the bergère’s floral jacquard fabric before sitting down, crossing one leg over the other and gesturing with one slender hand to the fauteuil opposite her. Draco didn’t need words to understand her message: this was a business meeting. 

“I’m not that thirsty,” he finally responded, keeping his posture straight as he faced her. She didn’t respond, wordlessly raising an eyebrow. He waited. Pansy observed him through heavy-lidded eyes. 

He began reciting Potions recipes in his head -- he was well-versed in traditional pureblood games of patience. 

Their expressions were impassive for a long moment, and then, Pansy shifted in her seat, the sound of her skirt rubbing against the chaise echoing between them. He smirked, and she let out a frustrated sigh. 

“Let’s get straight to the point, shall we?” she said, folding her arms over her chest. “What do you want from Gawain Robards?”

“I don’t want anything from him,” said Draco, finally relaxing against the chair. “How long do you think you’ll be able to keep up with this?”

She ignored him. “The photos and the Gringotts statement made an impact, I’ll give Theo props for that. But if it had been enough, you wouldn’t be here. What will get your people to back off?” 

Draco inclined his head, taking in as much of her as he could. It was hard to try to get a read on Pansy on the best of days, but it was almost impossible now she’d apparently taken on the role of Robards’s gatekeeper. 

He unceremoniously reached for his jacket’s pocket, pulling out a well-preserved copy of the photo. She didn’t hesitate before taking it from his outstretched hand. 

Pansy’s face remained stoic as her eyes flickered over the photo. “My hair looks impeccable.”

“Not even Witch Weekly would focus on that,” said Draco, sounding amused. “You and I know that you’re working for them, but the general public doesn’t. If this photo gets out, you might as well start picking your Azkaban cell. Do you think they’ll place you beside your daddy?”

“Will you come for conjugal visits?” she responded, her voice dripping with sarcasm. But Draco didn’t react. “You won’t do anything with this.”

In an instant, any trace of amusement fled Draco’s face. His movements were slow and deliberate as he leaned forward, rested his elbows against his thigh, and propped his chin on his intertwined fingers. For the first time, Pansy’s easy confidence faltered. 

“I will,” he said firmly. “And I won’t hesitate. Hell, I wouldn’t even feel guilty about it. People might not be keen on me, but they like you even less. The witch who was selling our classmates off during battle is helping plot the demise of Muggleborns. They’ll go nuts over that. ”

“You’re the one who’s engaged to the girl accused of embezzlement,” she fired back. “If I go down, so will you.”

Draco chuckled dryly. “I’ve got Hermione Granger and Harry Potter on my bloody side, Pansy. Nothing is going to happen to me.”

Pansy jutted her chin in defiance. “Does your mother--”

“My mother is very much aware of _who_ I’m with, sweetheart,” drawled Draco. “You better have something else hidden up that sleeve.” 

Surprise flashed across Pansy’s eyes, but she quickly pushed it down. “Even if Robards and Douglass get arrested, the Malfoy reputation won’t be restored, Draco. Do you think people will accept you and Granger’s little affair?” She shook her head. “You’ll be an outcast. A former Death Eater? They’ll see you as less than her and they’ll wonder what the fuck she’s doing with you. This won’t be the happy ending you’re dreaming of.”

Her words twisted his gut uncomfortably. He knew he could handle it however the public saw him. Hell, he’d already been called every name in the book. But he wondered if Granger could handle it. 

“The difference between you and I,” he muttered, plucking the photograph from her fingers. “Is that you care too much what other people think. That’s why you’ll take what I’m offering you.”

Pansy’s face fell, just slightly. She immediately blinked it away, but he’d see it. “They won’t accept me either.”

His mind drifted to Granger and Ginny Weasley. For a second, he even thought of Potter. “They will,” he muttered back. “They’re better than us like that, too.”

_

“I’m not sure it can be done, Miss Granger,” said Hughman, tugging nervously on his tie. 

Hermione heard Theo’s exaggerated sigh. She couldn’t blame him -- Bart Hughman had a special way of trying anyone’s patience. 

Harry had snuck them into the Ministry earlier that day, helping them corner Hughman in his office before running off to prepare for the press conference where he’d announce his renunciation of Robards’s campaign. 

Hermione had timed it out with verging on neurotic precision: she’d explain to her former boss exactly what would happen to him if he didn’t acquiesce to their demands, Hughman would cry for mercy, and then she and Theo would drag him into the room where the reporters were probably eating Harry alive.

Except, Hughman wasn’t exactly budging. 

“Listen, you old bat,” started Theo. Hughman gave him an outraged look. “You’re going down no matter what happens. I know these people, and they don’t pity you. I don’t, either, but this one has a bleeding heart,” he said, nodding at Hermione. 

“I don’t appreciate that tone coming from a criminal such as yourself, Mr. Nott--”

“Criminal?” screeched Theo. “You’re the one who’s been stealing money from the Ministry!”

Hughman cleared his throat. “I was simply following orders from my superiors,” he said, bouncing nervously in his seat. Hermione groaned. “Excuse me, Miss Granger--”

“If you’re going to use that excuse, then you need to at least sound like you mean it.”

“Miss Granger, I wouldn’t expect you to understand such a delicate situation, but --” He eased his tie around his neck, perspiration dappling his collar. “-- A wizard of my standing needs a cushion to fall on, if you know what I mean. At least a certainty--”

“A wizard of your standing? You’re a bloody pawn,” said Theo, standing up. “I’m over this, Granger, we don’t need him.”

Before he could reach the door, Hermione snapped. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” she stood up, reaching for her purse. “You’re going to draft a statement recounting everything Robards ordered you to do. Then, Edina Cartwell and I will back you up publicly. We’ll say you were manipulated into it. You’ll still have to face the consequences, but it’s better than taking the blame for it all. I don’t think you’d survive too long in Azkaban.”

“I don’t think that’s the most ideal plan for me, Miss Granger.”

Hermione bit back a curse. “Director,” she began, a sardonic smile on her face. “Believe me, it’s the most ideal plan. Because if you choose to hide, I’ll make it much worse for you. I’ll tell everyone the _truth_. I’ll recount publicly all the times you belittled and gaslighted not only me but Edina as well. I’ll tell everyone how you tried to sell me up for donation money that you later stole. Any person who might feel sympathy for you will despise you by the time I’m done.”

Hughman gulped. He seemed to shrink to the size of an ant, right in front of her. It was the first time he hadn’t looked at her from under his nose.

“Of course, Miss Granger, since you’re willing to help, how rude would I be if I refused? I was trying to save you the trouble, you see--” specks of saliva flying from his lips as he stammered. “Would you do that for me, Miss Granger?”

Behind her, Theo let out a groan. 

“I’m not doing _anything_ for you,” she said, her face contorting with offense. “You’re irrelevant in the overall scheme of things. I’ve got no problem making a deal with you if it’ll get me to who matters.” She sidestepped Theo, pulling open the door. “You’re going to fall, director. The question is how hard. You have until the end of the day.”

Hermione barged into the corridor. _“_ Not much of a bleeding heart, after all _,”_ chuckled Theo, before following her out the door. 

From the corner of her eye, she could see the glee on his face, but when the door hit loudly against its frame, he regarded her with a contemplative look. 

“I don’t think Cartwell will be as easy to convince as that twat,” he said. Hermione didn’t respond, trying to ignore the prickling sensation beginning to form on the back of her neck. She whirled around to look behind her, but saw nothing. Hughman’s was the only office on that floor; the hallway was completely empty. “We can owl her asking to meet, I’m sure--”

His voice was drowned by the strange awareness filling her. Hermione stopped. Theo almost stumbled into her as she jerked up a hand in front of him. “I think we’re being followed,” she whispered, looking around again.

Theo gave her a puzzled look. “By your paranoia, maybe,” he said. “Draco told me you have a connection to dear old Sybill. Maybe you’re having a premonition. Tell me, Cassandra, what do you see in your crystal ball?”

Hermione’s eyes shut in exasperation. “You both talk way too much,” she muttered under her breath. She threw another look over her shoulder, but Theo was already pulling her towards the nearest apparition point, and she shook her head and let him guide her. 

_

Hermione was surprised Theo had let her roam around his Manor unsupervised. 

She’d always assumed the old Wizarding mansions carried too many family secrets to allow just anyone to look around. But once Theo collapsed on the couch with two fingers of whiskey and told her to help herself to the kitchen, she couldn’t control her curiosity. 

She paid close attention to the pristine walls, paneled in a dark wood, and how her shoes didn’t make any sound when they clicked against the tiles. 

Nott Manor looked vacant. There were neither paintings nor photos hanging on the walls nor elves running haggard to keep the place presentable. Doors were flung open, leading to mostly empty rooms. The only signs of life she’d seen were a couple of dying plants he’d most likely forgotten to cast a Watering charm on. If the house didn’t carry his name, she wouldn’t have guessed Theo lived there. 

She sighed and began to make her track back.

The room where they usually gathered looked slightly more lived-in, but still so carefully put together it didn’t give her much insight into what lay beneath Theo’s theatrical personality. 

He claimed to be an open book, but she had the growing feeling he was the exact opposite. 

Hermione rubbed her fingertips against her temples. She knew she was overanalyzing -- latching onto another project to forget the feeling of being watched. She wasn’t even sure Cartwell would show up. They’d owled her the address to Nott Manor, but she couldn’t do anything but wait. 

When reached the room, she found Theo at the head of the table. “You don’t have any elves here?” she asked. 

“Ah,” he clicked his tongue, swirling the ice cubes in his glass. “I don’t subscribe to those old traditions. I’m a modern man, and elves tend to get scandalized when I bring my lady friends around.”

Hermione pursed her lips. “How did you get the photos?”

“From one of my sources,” said Theo without missing a beat. 

“Which one?” she pressed. Theo’s lips began to curve up, and she knew that whatever came out of his mouth next would be just humourous enough to distract her. She didn’t know why Theo’s façade suddenly bothered her. Hermione could figure out everyone else’s motivations, and he was the only one she couldn’t read. “And before you try to bullshit me--”

“You don’t like me very much, do you, Granger?” he interrupted, then winked at her. “It’s okay, I know I can be an acquired taste.”

“I don’t know you to dislike you, Theo.”

“What?” he screeched in mock offense. “Why are you attacking me like that? We’re buddies. We’re quite literally saving the Wizarding World together.”

Hermione cocked her head to the side, observing him. “Why _are_ you saving the Wizarding World? Draco wants to redeem himself, even if he won’t admit it. Daphne wants her freedom. And Harry would do anything for peace and justice. Why do _you_ care? You’re orchestrating protests, pumping your sources for information, spending so much time--”

“I knew you had too much fun at those meetings,” he chuckled, but something shifted in his expression. Hermione had only seen that look on his face a handful of times, and it spurred her on. “Wanna talk about dark magic next? Maybe you and Cartwell can tag team me when she arrives. I love me some psychoanalysis.”

Hermione opened her mouth to continue, but something stopped her -- 

She smiled. “Oh, I know,” she exclaimed. Theo looked at her as if she had gone bonkers. “You’re in love with Draco, aren’t you?”

“Are you insane?” he groaned. “I’m not trying to steal your man, Granger.”

“He’ll get a kick out of this when I tell him,” she cooed. “You fell in love with him when you were just snot-nosed Slytherins, didn’t you? Your feelings intensified when you were fighting for the dark side together, and now you’re following him into becoming a vigilante --”

He rolled his eyes. “Are you done playing Rita Skeeter?” he said but didn’t bother to hide how delighted he was. “You’re a twisted one, aren’t you, Granger? Getting all worked up over the thought of your boyfriend with someone else. I dig that, I’ll admit, but --”

“What?”

He licked his lips. “My father did everything he could to turn the Wizarding World into a nasty place,” he shrugged. “I wasn’t a bully in Hogwarts, and I wasn’t a Death-Eater. I knew it was all wrong. But I didn’t do anything to stop it, either.”

Hermione could point out how young he’d been, that he wouldn’t have much of a difference, either, but she thought Theo knew it better than she could. “And now you can?”

He shrugged again. “I can try.”

Hermione nodded, once, an idea forming in her mind. She didn’t voice it, opting instead to lean over the table, angling her body towards him as she asked, in a hushed voice, “Are you sure you aren’t in love with him?”

Theo mirrored her, his face turning serious. Hermione’s eyes widened mockingly, and he whispered back, “He’s too blond for me.”

“Hello?” A voice startled them, their heads whipping around towards it. Hermione shot up from her seat, reaching Cartwell in a few strides. “Oh, it’s really you.”

“I signed the letter,” said Hermione with a frown. 

Cartwell smoothed the wrinkles in her pencil skirt, eyes darting from Hermione to Theo. “You told me to meet you at Nott Manor. I couldn’t be sure.”

“And you still came? Now, that’s stupid,” he chuckled, but it died when he caught Hermione’s scowling face. “You know what? Call me when you need me.” He gave them a salute before walking towards the door. “Looking fit, Miss Edina,” he called out, then slammed the door behind him. 

“That boy,” sighed Cartwell. 

“He’s right, though. Why did you come if you didn’t think it was me?”

She smiled weakly. “I thought maybe he needed my help. I wasn’t able to follow my work with the program as I hoped. I felt bad about it, and Theo had always been one of the better ones.”

“That’s up for debate,” said Hermione. She guided Cartwell to the table they’d previously occupied. The witch followed her hesitantly. “How have you been holding up?”

“Currently unemployed,” said Cartwell, sheepishly looking around. “I don’t know how Hughman got that job. I can’t even get an interview at St. Mungo’s.”

“Did you try to ask him for a job?”

She huffed. “I worked for him for two years, Hermione. If he believed in my capabilities, he would’ve offered me a job on his own. And now that all that dirt about the MRC is coming out, I’m not even sure I want to be at the Ministry. I might leave Britain --” She faltered. “Why did you invite me here, Hermione? And what are you doing with Theo Nott?”

Hermione didn’t answer immediately, measuring her words. “He and I are working on a project together,” she said neutrally. “I’m sure you’ve read the papers.”

“Are you really trying to take the Wizengamot down?” Her voice was shaky with apprehension, but Hermione thought she caught a hint of awe, as well. 

She thought back to the first time she and Cartwell had spoken -- in that empty room where she’d watched the Slytherins jerk the healer around. Cartwell had told Hermione of her belief, her _certainty_ , that the two of them could make a difference, even if they couldn’t agree on how _._

“I’m just trying to bring attention to matters that have been overlooked,” said Hermione, noting how Cartwell’s eyes lit up. “Hughman knows _a lot_ , more than we’d ever imagined.”

“I heard Greengrass mention him,” scoffed Cartwell. “Every time he’d try to stop me from paying too close attention to the program, it was because he didn’t want me to look into what was going on, right?”

“I think so,” said Hermione. “He knows things and he’s willing to come forward with them. And that’s important right now, Edina.”

Cartwell’s mouth parted. “He volunteered?”

“I wouldn’t say that. He’ll downplay his role, but his word alone is kind of weak. I’m going to back him, but you’ll help solidify --”

“How could you do that?” Her voice rose slightly. It was still calm, but there was a new urgency to it. “He deserves to pay for what he did and the way he treated us.”

Hermione’s jaw clenched. “He’ll pay for it. But Hughman isn’t the real danger here. The people he worked for are. You’ve told me several times that you’d work towards good where you could. Or did you forget you were willing to shut me up about Rookwood so we could keep the program running?”

Cartwell flinched. “I apologized for that, Hermione.”

“And I accepted your apology,” she said, standing up. “But now I need your help. You can make a real change, Edina. Or you can just stand back and let people do it for you.”

Cartwell averted her gaze, but tension was rolling off of her in waves. 

Hermione reached for the door handle, pulling open the door and calling for Theo, who was standing with his back against the opposite wall. Cartwell’s response didn’t matter -- Hermione would get Hughman’s statement out that day. 

She felt like there was a clock ticking around her and she couldn’t stomach the thought of waiting for other people to decide what they could handle. 

At that moment, she felt a furious urge to lash out -- the voice in her head shouted how unfair it was that she was the one putting herself in front of all the bullets. Even if she knew it wasn’t quite the truth. Even if she knew how petulant and childish that voice sounded. 

As soon as he stepped into the study, Theo said, “So? Are we ready to rock and roll?”

The sound of his voice seemed to startle Cartwell, but after a couple of beats, she turned to face them. “Well,” she said weakly, “I guess we are.”

_

Dusk had fallen by the time they arrived at Hughman’s house. 

The street was dimly lit, but slivers of lamplight shone through the windows of surrounding brick and wooden cottages -- a rainbow kaleidoscope of families reunited after a long day at work. Hermione hadn’t pictured where her former boss lived, but wouldn’t have guessed it’d be in such an ordinary place.

As the three of them walked in silence, she waited for the chill to return -- the sensation that eyes were following her every move, filled with more intention than she was comfortable with.

But it didn’t. 

Hermione looked around a couple of times, but saw only a couple jogging and stray cats jumping from rooftop to rooftop. 

Maybe Theo had been right -- she was too paranoid. 

“Here it is,” said Theo, gesturing to the Edwardian cottage on the street corner. It was a bright shade of purple, yet seemed almost dull compared with the vibrant residences that came before it. The white curtains were closed, obscuring the view from outside. Theo hummed, fiddling with the lock on the gate. “Huh. Too easy.”

“Maybe we should wait for him to answer,” said Cartwell, already reaching to press the buzzer. Theo ignored her, pushing the gate open. “Mr. Nott,” she hissed.

“Miss Edina,” he drawled. “He’s not your boss anymore. He’s can’t fire you for being rude.” 

Cartwell shot Hermione a pointed look, but she just followed Theo. She was eager to get this done and over with -- the day had been mentally and physically draining, and she wanted to go _home_ , to Draco’s warmth, to Crookshanks and their safe haven. 

Theo made a show of knocking on the front door twice, grinning at Cartwell, who was doing her best to mask her annoyance. 

No one answered immediately, and they shuffled in place, waiting --

“You think he isn’t home?” asked Hermione, lifting her fist to the door once more. She must have put too much strength in it, because the door creaked open a fraction. She frowned, pressing her palm against it. “It’s not normal for wizards to leave their houses like this.”

“No wards either,” said Theo, pushing past her and into the house. “The fuck.”

“Maybe we should owl him instead,” piped up Cartwell.

“No. Something’s obviously gone wrong,” said Hermione, reaching for her wand and clutching it tightly between her fingers. She saw Theo do the same. Cartwell didn’t move from her place by the front door. 

Hermione didn’t press her, treading lightly as she walked further into the house. The first floor was made up of a decently sized living room. A couple of light brown armchairs and a couch, walls covered with framed photos of Hughman -- holding his diplomas, shaking hands with famous wizards from Cornelius Fudge to Kingsley, Robards, and even Douglass. 

She scanned the room for Hughman. He wasn’t there. 

Theo was walking towards what looked like the kitchen, so she pushed open a door to its left -- a lavatory, also empty. Hermione turned back and zigzagged through the furniture, making a beeline for the stairs. 

“Nothing in the kitchen,” whispered Theo. “Maybe we should call the others.”

Hermione glanced at him over her shoulder. “We don’t need Harry or Draco for this. You can hide behind me if you’re too scared,” she said, ignoring his hiss of annoyance. 

The first door on the second floor was another bathroom. Hermione shut the door as silently as she could, her heart hammering inside her chest. Theo’s light steps mirrored hers as he loomed over her shoulder -- two bedrooms, a closet, another bathroom, and then --

“Fuck,” groaned Theo, walking over to him. 

“Don’t touch him!” she whisper-shouted. He stopped himself just before his fingers touched Hughman’s shoulders. Her grip on her wand wavered, and it tumbled into the floor before she could regain her hold.

She bent down to snatch it back, but her eyes never left the scene in front of her. 

Hughman was on the floor, his back against the wall next to the closet, head lolling at an unnatural angle. His mouth hung open and his eyes were closed -- in the dim light of the room, she could see that his skin was a miserable shade of grey. 

She watched as Theo bent towards him, his ear leaning in as close to Hughman as he could without touching him. But Hermione didn’t need to check to know he wasn’t breathing. 

“ _Yep_ ,” said Theo, the ‘p’ sound ringing out as he straightened up and squinted at him. “He’s dead.”

Hermione gulped, her eyes falling to the mess on the floor. The tie he’d tugged at earlier was lying a couple of feet away from his body, his wand just a few inches from his hand, as if it had fallen when he lost strength. A charmed quill and a lone piece of parchment lie by his feet. 

She took a step back. “What’s that?”

Theo followed her gaze, leaning down to quickly scan the parchment. Blood rose to his face the longer he read. “It’s a confession,” he muttered darkly. “And a suicide note.”

 _That doesn’t make any sense_ , thought Hermione. She couldn't bring herself to look at Hughman’s body, to try to examine it properly. Alarm bells in her head told her that the last thing they needed was to be caught there. 

_But_ _it doesn’t make any sense_ \--

Her heart sped up and she pressed a hand to her chest, fisting her sweater’s cashmere between her fingers as she muttered, her voice not sounding like her own, “Grab it.”

Theo didn’t hesitate and Hermione turned around, her feet pounding down the hallway. He followed after her, and when they reached the entrance, Cartwell was standing there, shivering against the winter chill -- 

She looked up when she saw them, mouth opening for a question. Hermione didn’t give her a chance, tugging at her arm as she dragged the witch out of the house. 

“Hermione, _stop_ , what’s happening?” demanded Cartwell. She looked at Theo, who was walking just as quickly next to them. “Mr. Nott, what’s going on? He wasn’t there?”

“Listen,” said Hermione, once they reached the apparition point. “Go to your place and stay there. Don’t answer the Floo for strangers and don’t talk to the press.”

“Hermione?”

Hermione’s gaze flickered to Theo before returning to Cartwell. “Hughman was killed,” she said. “I don’t think anyone followed us here, but these people-- they aren’t playing anymore. Go to your place and stay there.”

She ignored Cartwell’s terrified expression and gasp that left her mouth. Hermione nudged her with her elbow. “ _Go_ , I’ll owl you when I can.”

“But--”

“Listen, Edina,” said Theo, sounding strangely solemn. “You wanted to help, and that’s cool, but we’ll take over from here. Just do us a favor and don’t mention what we’ve told you to anyone.”

The woman looked like she wanted to protest, but their contrite expressions must’ve been enough to dissuade her because she nodded once before apparating away. 

Hermione turned to Theo, but no words were exchanged before they did the same. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was one of my favorite chapters to write, lol. I hope you enjoy all the Hermione and Theo interactions that I wrote because I'm too self-indulgent at times, lol! 
> 
> Thank you guys so much for the comments. The response this story has been getting is honestly the best gift I've gotten this crazy pandemic year! Excited to hear your thoughts and theories on what's coming ;) and if anyone is missing more dramione lone times and interactions as of late, I promise there's some of my fav moments of them coming soon <3


	37. Wishbone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was edited by @jeparlepasfrancais, she's the best!!

“Don’t you see, it’s like I’ve swallowed your house keys, and it feels so natural, like the bullet was already there, like it’s been waiting inside me the whole time. **Do you want it? Do you want anything I have?** Will you throw me to the ground like you mean it, reach inside and wrestle it out with your bare hands? **If you love me, Henry, you don’t love me in a way I understand.** ” Wishbone, Richard Siken

* * *

The frame with her chant had been set up in a spot above the fireplace’s mantle. 

Hermione had glimpsed it several times in passing, short and stolen moments of reprieve between putting out successive fires. 

The words seemed to gleam back at her even in the pitch-black living room -- she stared at them and hoped for tranquility. Her eyelids got heavier with each passing second, but she fought against the urge to snap them shut. 

Hermione looked away from the frame for the first time in what felt like hours, looking down at the figure lying by her side on the couch. Draco's legs were thrown over her lap. One of his arms hid most of his face, while the other hung loose, his fingertips brushing over the hardwood floor. She knew he wasn’t asleep, either -- his breathing was too uneven, and every now and then she felt his gaze linger on her. 

Theo was sitting on the floor by the staircase, his head dropping forward every time he lost his battle against sleep, only to jerk awake a couple of minutes later. Since Crookshanks had begun standing guard by his feet, he’d gone out like a light. 

Hermione assumed Daphne was asleep; less than an hour ago she’d headed upstairs to the bed they’d offered her, too spooked to return to her own home.

Not even she had thought her father would go this far. 

“What are you waiting for?” croaked Draco. His voice was rough, as if his vocal cords had been scratched raw. “Go to sleep.”

“I can’t sleep on the couch,” she lied. “You can’t either.”

“I’ll send Daphne to Pansy’s place.”

Hermione shot him a glare. “Daphne needs to be here.”

He sat up on the couch, dropping his legs to the floor as he turned to her. “You’ve taken up the big sister role and that’s fine, but Pansy’s her best friend. Besides, she’s on our side now.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” snapped Hermione, wincing at the unprovoked bite in her tone. It wasn’t Draco’s fault she was on edge -- they all were. She didn’t know how much more they could take of these twists and turns before one of them did something reckless. She didn’t know if they _shouldn’t_ throw caution into the wind. “Sorry.”

“Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t like you a bit mean, Granger,” he said, sounding more amused than insulted. She turned to him, and his smile quirked up. “What do you want to do after this?” he said. When she grunted in confusion, he elaborated. “After all of this is over?”

Hermione paused. She hadn’t thought that far, at all. 

For a long time, she’d carefully avoided evaluating her life. She was twenty-two, unemployed, and had the equivalent of a high school diploma. If they came out of this victorious, her only real job experience would amount to a whole lot of nothing. 

Hell, if this went on for a couple more months, she’d be penniless, too. _The brightest witch of our age, alright_ , she thought, her memory flashing to Sirius’s smarmy face. 

“Granger?” 

Hermione pushed the thought to the back of her mind. She didn’t have time to dwell. “I want to take you to my parents’ house,” she said suddenly. 

Draco smirked. “Do you think they would’ve liked me?”

“They’d hate your guts,” she said bluntly, giggling at the genuine offense that overtook his beautiful face. “I wouldn’t have cared, though.”

“Well,” he said, in that haughty way that always managed to charm the hell out of her. “We’re a couple of rebels, aren’t we, Granger?”

Hermione gave him a small smile, and they sat back on the couch, their heavy eyes blinking away the sleep threatening to pull them into the darkness. 

They sat and waited for something they couldn’t pinpoint. 

_

Draco watched Daphne pace around her room, throwing clothes into Granger’s beaded bags before halting in place, putting her hands going to her hips as she looked around for anything she might’ve missed. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked, frowning at her ruffled state. “Crashing at Theo’s might be worse than living here. I don’t think he cleans the place, and I’ve never seen anything but alcohol in his fridge.”

“Theo’s not a murderer,” she sighed with exasperation.“My father, on the other hand…”

“Welcome to the club,” he said flippantly. “It’s not like he’s going to kill _you_.”

“No, just throw me to the werewolves and watch as I try to claw my way out.” She ripped open a drawer. “I should’ve gone to America--”

“ _When you had the chance_. Get over it,” snapped Draco. “You need to look calm when we talk to him. Do you know why he had Hughman offed? Because he’s desperate.” 

“He is,” she said distractedly, rifling through her drawers. “The protests show no sign of stopping anytime soon, and I bet you he thought Robards’ speech would do the trick. He’s grasping at straws and he knows it.”

Draco rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Don’t you think it’s strange he hasn’t called me in?”

“No,” said Daphne, turning to grab something from her bedside table. “You’re his plan for the future, Draco. He won’t taint you with this while there’s a chance Robards will pull through.” 

“Except he won’t,” said Draco. She didn’t call him out on the misguided confidence, but her expression was unimpressed. “And today I will get rid of both of you. Thank Merlin.”

“Oh, you act like it was torture pretending to be my fiance,” she said, batting her lashes. “I wasn’t even mad when you fell in love with another witch right under my nose.”

“It took me almost half a year and complicity in an evil political scheme to get me out of your bloody clutches, so pardon if I shamelessly celebrate.”

“Be my guest, I won’t make you wait any longer,” said Daphne in a sugary voice. She placed the last of her most valued possessions into the bag before heading towards the window. A large amber owl was waiting for her. After securing the bag in its beak, she made a beeline for the door, signaling for him to follow. 

Their feigned indifference disappeared the moment they set foot into the hall. 

Daphne’s anxiety vanished from her face like a mirage -- she stood taller than Draco in her five-inch heels, and he straightened his posture to match her height, rushing through his ritual of emptying his mind. 

By the time they reached Douglass’ study, they’d almost fooled themselves into believing they were prepared for the outcome of this conversation. 

He felt her gaze on him, but he didn’t turn to meet it, adjusting the collar of his shirt instead. Daphne didn’t comment on it, and in an uncharacteristic move, she pushed the door open without permission. 

Her graceful movements exuded confidence as she sashayed into the room. From behind her, Draco saw Douglass’ momentary expression of surprise, just as soon replaced by annoyance. 

“Daphne, darling. I wasn’t aware we had scheduled a talk,” he said, giving her a patronizing smile. He nodded politely at Draco.

“I shouldn’t have to schedule a time to talk with my father. I’m not your businesspartner,” she said sweetly. If Douglass was taken aback by her attitude, he didn’t show it. 

Douglass sat on the edge of his desk, his arms crossed over his chest as he tilted his head as if contemplating her for the first time. 

There was something eerie about the way he looked at her. Draco felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and he wanted to wrap his fingers around Daphne’s arm and pull her out of the room. It felt like danger. 

The silence stretched for a few short beats, long enough to make Daphne’s mask falter. She shifted her weight, her voice coming out stronger than she appeared to feel, “Draco and I need to speak with you.”

“Of course,” said Douglass, his eyes darting to Draco again. “Long time no see, Mr. Malfoy. Why are you standing like that? We’re all family here, aren’t we?”

“Father--”

“Why don’t you both sit? I’ll get us firewhiskey. Something a bit softer for the lady, of course.” Despite his words, Douglass remained still, staring intently at Draco. 

“I don’t drink,” said Draco, clenching his jaw. “And I’d rather stand.”

For some reason, that answer seemed to please Douglass, whose thin lips curled just an inch. “Suit yourself,” he said, uncrossing his arms and relaxing his hands on the desk. “Since you seem eager for a seat at the adult’s table, I’m guessing this conversation has to do with Miss Hermione Granger?”

His words felt like a curse aimed straight at Draco’s chest. It took everything inside of him not to react, and he could feel the tension in the room increase tenfold. He didn’t dare look at Daphne, but his mind yelled a plea for her to keep her composure.

“What?” Douglass huffed a laugh. “I thought you wanted to talk?”

Daphne cleared her throat. “About our engagement.”

Douglass pushed away from the desk. “Are you sure you don’t want to sit?” he asked again, calmly heading towards his bar. “I don’t like how strained this feels. We’re all family here, aren’t we, children? But then again--” He clicked his tongue. “There’s the issue of Miss Hermione Granger.” 

“What are you talking about, father?” asked Daphne, her forehead creasing with confusion. Douglass exhaled another dry laugh, but didn’t reply right away. He took his time filling his tumbler of firewhiskey. He opened a cigar case, studying its contents for a moment before shaking his head and placing it back on the bar. 

Draco’s heart thudded in his chest, his jaw set so slightly he feared it’d crack in two. He wanted to ball his hands into fists, but he was worried that he wouldn’t be able to control his urge to sink them into Douglass’ face. 

“Father--”

“Shut the fuck up, Daphne,” snapped Douglass. Daphne flinched, and somehow it made Draco want to cackle. _Your father never cursed at you?_ he wanted to ask, because in that moment--

He knew Daphne had had it worse than him. He’d always known his family was rotten to the core. 

“You fooled me for a bit with the courtship, I’ll give you that,” continued Douglass, returning to his former position by his desk. “But it’s a bit rude you felt the need to throw my kindness in my face.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” tried Daphne.

“I expected no less from you, darling,” said Douglass, taking a sip of his drink. The wrinkles on the corners of his eyes were more pronounced, as if lack of sleep was aging him, too. “You’re careless, and you weren’t raised to understand the inner mechanisms of the world we lived in. But Draco? I was disappointed.”

Draco opened his mouth to speak, but Daphne beat him to it. “Shut the fuck up, father,” she snapped. Douglass didn’t flinch, as if he’d been expecting it. “I’m tired of you acting like I’m too daft to string together two bloody sentences. Would I’ve fooled you if I’d been _careless?_ This thing was a sham from the get fucking go. Draco and I never planned to get married, and he never planned to help you out either. _I_ fooled _you_. Are you sure you aren’t the daft one?”

Douglass let out an ugly cackle. He’d never heard the wizard laugh, and he was glad for it -- there was no joy or mirth in the sound, just sharp edges that served to cut everyone around him. “Daphne, my girl. You fooled me only because I was too busy focusing on things that matter to pay attention to your life.” He shook his head. “When will you learn your place, darling? Your mother and your sister know it so well. Why must you insist--”

“How could you say that to me?” said Daphne. 

“Don’t interrupt me,” Douglass barked. His eyes suddenly turned to Draco. “I don’t want to hear a temper tantrum, from either of you. If you came here to speak like adults, we’ll speak like adults.”

“Great,” said Draco. He reached inside of his pocket for the ring box Daphne had returned to him earlier. He cut the distance between him and Douglass, standing up taller as he set the box on the desk. “I won’t need that anymore.”

“You know, Draco,” Douglass’s voice lacked the anger that seemed to pour out of every word he aimed at Daphne. It sounded eerily calm, and Draco itched for his wand. “When your mother shamelessly begged for my help, I thought I’d make the Malfoys my charitable case of the year. It helped that I saw potential in you. It’s a shame, really.”

“A shame?” scoffed Draco. 

“You’re a boy,” he snapped. “Misguided, I knew. But I’m disappointed to see how unintelligent you really are. Your father’s lucky he’s not here to see you throw away the opportunity I gave you in order to shack up with that mudblood of yours. I’m always inclined to give boys second chances, but if you want to pretend to be a man, I’ll treat you like one.”

Before he registered what he was doing, Draco pulled his wand out of his pocket and stuck it under Douglass’s chin. “Is this how men talk?” he said in a firm voice.

Behind him, Daphne muttered nervously. “Draco--”

“Not civilized ones,” laughed Douglass. “You’re not going to do a thing.”

The certainty in his voice made Draco smile. “You love to talk, don’t you? But I don’t see you doing _shit_. You just fucking hide. You hid inside this house during the war, and you hide behind us _boys_ when it comes to carrying out your fucking mess. You’re planning to hide behind Robards after the election, too, aren’t you? You talk and talk and I’m fucking tired of hearing it.”

“You’re more unintelligent than I thought if you think a king needs to be seen and applauded,” replied Douglass. “There’s no power in that, Mr. Malfoy. You should know this by now. Isn’t that what you’ve been doing this entire time with my daughter? Trying to acquire _something_ by pretending you were courting while you were dirtying your bloodline behind my back?”

Draco’s hold on his wand tightened, but it didn’t shake. _One spell, two words_ and it’d be over. The light in Douglass’s eyes would go out, and he’d fall as if he had never stood before.

It’d be easy, too -- _so_ easy. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t make himself do it. 

“What do you know about that?” he said, lowering his arm. 

Douglass contemplated him for a moment before replying. “Walls have eyes and ears, Mr. Malfoy. You should warn Mr. Nott to think twice before sauntering into the Ministry’s halls with the Wizarding World’s most popular mudblood,” he scoffed. “I didn’t pay attention before, I’ll give you that, but afterwards it didn’t take much effort to figure out Miss Granger’s current residence.” 

_Fuck_ , _fuck_. “Why don’t you give up before you embarrass yourself, then? If you know anything about Hermione Granger, you realize she isn’t known to lose,” said Draco. He shoved his wand inside his pocket and took a step back, a smirk on his face. “No one trusts Robards further than they can throw him, and Hestia Jones is smart enough to ride this wave as hard as she can. Or have you missed the protests? And you said Daphne’s careless, but the way you handled Bart Hughman reeked of desperation.”

“Bart Hughman had the mediocre ending of a wizard who could not face the consequences of his actions,” said Douglass. “It’s sad someone would resort to such a display of weakness, but I hope you’re not insinuating I bear that guilt.”

“That was low even for you, father,” said Daphne, her words dripping with disgust.

“And I’m sure that’s what the DMLE will conclude when their investigations are done,” said Draco, flashing a cold smile. “Stealing the hard-earned galleons of our taxpayers and setting your daughters up to take the fall will get you a few years in Azkaban. But murder and treason? That’s good enough for a dementor’s kiss.”

“Let’s see if Potter can prove that, shall we?” said Douglass.

“This is a waste of time,” said Daphne, taking a step forward.“You’re going down for this, we both know it. But this particular farce--” she gestured to herself and Draco, “--is over, and I’m moving out.”

Douglass leaned towards her. 

Draco imagined the strength it took not to flinch back, but Daphne remained still as her father caressed her cheek. “I doubt it, darling. You’re my daughter, and you owe a duty to me. And Mr. Malfoy had his fun, but he has a couple of debts to his name. You should be glad I’m in a forgiving mood.”

The confidence in his tone made Draco sneer. “I don’t owe you shit. And if you try to do _anything_ to me, you’ll be surrounded by Aurors in ten seconds flat. I’m not playing with you.”

“I’m not known to _play_ ,” snapped Douglass, reaching for his tumbler and draining it. He slammed it down on the desk before picking up the ring box. “You _owe_ me for my kindness and forgiveness. After the election, you’ll wed in a traditional ceremony. Draco will renounce the Malfoy name and represent me in this world’s new order. He won't contest it, and he won’t complain until his debt is paid. And when I deem you worthy, I might be kind enough to let you keep your mudblood pet in the bloody basement. Does that seem fair enough to you?”

A vein in Draco’s neck threatened to explode. “Are you fucking insane?”

“He is. Let’s get out of here,” said Daphne, wrapping her hand around Draco’s forearm and tugging him towards the door. “There’s no use talking to him.”

Draco nodded and twisted around to follow her. 

“Because if you don’t,” started Douglass. “The entire Wizarding World will find out that while your father was dying inside an Azkaban cell, your mother was shagging her lawyer in every inch of your family’s Manor--”

Draco paused. Blood rushed to his head and there was a sudden sting in his eyes. He blinked it away before saying through gritted teeth, “That’s a lie.”

“The Malfoy wedding vow states that “ _thou shall not dishonor your husband’s name._ ” I certainly don’t need to explain how powerful old magic is. And your mother prides herself on her reputation. I wonder if she’d be able to live with it if her secret got out.”

Draco’s brain ceased functioning, The blur in his eyes made it difficult to make sense of the hallway stretching in front of him. Even the pain of Daphne’s nails digging into his skin didn’t seem to register. “Just one little article in _The Daily Prophet_ and she’d lose the name, the galleons, and the Manor. But I think the damage to her reputation will cut deeper. To be a Black again might be even worse than to be a Malfoy.”

“Shut up, father,” said Daphne. 

“I’m done, anyway,” he said smoothly. “I’ll see you both at your sister’s engagement ball in a couple of days. I don’t forgive tardiness.” 

As if sensing he wasn’t able to formulate a response, Daphne tugged harder at his arm, pulling out of the room and letting the door slam shut behind them. 

He shrugged off her hold. 

“Where are you going?” 

Her voice called out to him as his long strides ate up the distance between the study and the front hall. He could hear her heels _tip-tapping_ behind him. He could hear her grandmother’s wails rising from the wall, a piercing sound that sent him spiraling into the tunnel in front of him--

Before Draco fully registered his actions, he’d ripped the charmed portrait off the wall. Daphne’s shouts got louder, but he couldn't discern a word she said. 

The pale face of the old woman had become a deep scarlet as she shouted at him, but it ceased the moment Draco smashed the painting on his knee, the frame cracking in two before its shredded pieces fell into a heap on the floor. 

Daphne let out a loud gasp, but before she could put the fragments back together, he grabbed his wand and set it on fire. 

When the smell of burnt wood and cotton hit his nose, he muttered through a shaky breath, “She was a deranged fucking bitch,” and apparated out of the house.

_

Draco didn’t know why he thought the Manor would’ve changed in his absence. Part of him had expected it to reshape, fundamentally transform until he’d no longer recognize it. He’d even expected the wards to block him out, a clear message he was no longer welcome in his mother’s home. 

But it was the same -- same dark walls, dark floors, marble statues, paintings, and portraits. 

As soon as he stepped into the house, Minzy popped out of thin air, but he couldn’t bring himself to give her more than a sharp hello. 

There was a lump forming inside of his throat, and the sting in his eyes had intensified -- 

As if sensing his urgency, Minzy guided him to the renovated ballroom. He hadn’t stepped a foot inside that room since the war ended, and he almost wanted to laugh at the irony of having to drag himself there, now--

The place where Granger had cried and begged for help, while he watched. The testimony of him being as sick and twisted as the rest of them.

 _No,_ he told himself. _I’m better than this, I’m better than this, I’m better than this_ \--

“Draco,” his mother gasped. She was in the center of the room, a stack of parchments gathered in her arms. “What are you doing here?”

He walked into the room. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“Oh,” she said faintly. She vanished the parchments, looking a little dazed. “I’m making some renovations.”

“Do you remember what happened here?”

Narcissa sighed, taking a step toward him. He took a step backward, and she stopped. “I remember perfectly what happened in this room, son.”

“Then why not seal the fucking door and never come in here again.” His question came out as a demand, and his mother put her palms up as if to protect herself from him. A muscle jumped under his skin, and he dragged his eyes away from hers. “This room should be burned to the fucking ground. All of the Manor should.”

“Do you think erasing painful memories is the same as healing from them, Draco?”

For some reason, her words seemed to deepen the feeling of desperation taking root in his chest. He pushed his fists into his eyes, trying to keep himself under control, but when lowered his arms, tears fell anyway. 

His mother’s blanched, shock taking over her face. Draco opened his mouth to say something, anything, but his voice cracked before he could get a word out. 

Time stood still for a long moment. 

“I _love_ you, mum,” he said at last. “But I don’t know how to get rid of the traps you keep setting up for me. Every time I think I’m done, you pull me back in. Every time--” He pressed his knuckles into the back of his neck, trying to ease the pain there. “Why do you hate me so bloody much?”

“Of course I don’t hate you,” she whispered. “Draco, where is this coming from?”

He wiped his face, his gaze darting around the room before returning to hers. His mother looked lost. “Did you shag Stewart in here too?”

He saw tears pool in her eyes, but unlike him, she didn’t let them fall. Even at her most emotional, she was more composed than him. It made him want to grab at her arms and shake her. It made him want to snap. “How do you know about Stewart?”

“You won’t even deny it?” he yelled. “Douglass Greengrass told me. _No_ , he _threatened_ me. And I took the beating for you. I’m always taking the beatings for you.”

“That’s not fair--”

“I don’t fucking care about fair anymore,” he shouted. A feeling of helplessness strangled him. like he’d tip-toed around her for so long, only to end up with his feet bloodied from stepping into smashed glass. “Last time we talked, I was patient. I tried, mum. I _listened_ to you. But you could’ve been discreet, you could’ve -- you _shamed_ me for disgracing our name with Granger while you were doing the fucking same. You put me down and you belittled me to keep me by your side. You preferred me unhappy.”

“Draco, I’m sorry,” she pleaded. “I-- son, I want us to go back-- I want-- I _love_ you more than anything in this world. You’re my only baby.”

Draco stared at her. And he stared. There was an abyss forming inside of him. “You don’t love me in a way I understand, mum.”

He turned around, her hoarse voice calling out his name as he left the room he should’ve never returned to.

_

Hermione heard Crookshanks’s loud meows and poked her head out of their bedroom. Her heart skipped a beat when she caught sight of Draco’s familiar silhouette in the living room. 

She abandoned the book she’d been reading on the bed before racing down the stairs. 

“ _Hey,_ I have news about Hughman,” she started before her feet hit the first floor. “Not good news, unfortunately. Harry said that the Wizengamot is insisting it’s a suicide, which we saw coming, fine. But Blaise ran a story this morning demanding an investigation. People set up a charmed poster in Diagon Alley counting how many days it’s been since they haven’t started the embezzlement case’s investigation. Theo’s planning to--”

“Granger,” he whispered, and she took the time to properly look at him. “I ruined everything again. I’m sorry.” He took a deep breath. “I said I wouldn’t fail you but I did.”

“Hey,” she whispered. “That’s not true.”

“My family is fucked up.”

“I know that.” She slowly crossed the room. Draco looked so spooked she was afraid he’d draw away from her touch, but he walked into her arms without any coaxing. “You’re not like them.”

“I’m not.” The sound came from somewhere deep within his chest, and she fisted the fabric of his shirt into her hands. “I love you different, Granger. I love you _better_. But she’s my mother.”

“Okay,” she could only whisper. His eyes were swollen, and his cheeks were a deep red. She rubbed the pad of her thumb on his smooth skin, and he leaned into her touch. 

“I wish I could meet your parents,” he sniffed. Hermione bit her bottom lip so hard she felt the metallic taste of blood hitting her tongue. “I don’t want them to hate my guts.”

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You should take me to their house today,” he said. “Right now.”

“Draco--”

“Granger, I don’t think there’ll be an _after_ for me.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but then his eyes flashed with something foreboding -- it made her want to pound her fists into his chest and beg him to take it back.

It felt like the beginning of the end. 

_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies. Some important announcements, but first:
> 
> This chapter's title was different than the other ones, this time it's the title of the poem I quoted, which is also my favorite in the world. I recommend it to everyone as I feel like it's a good representation of Draco's emotional journey when it comes to his family. I even paraphrased a bit of it ;) while the original poem represents a romantic relationship, I love all of its possibilities! Here's the [full thing](https://anotherhand.livejournal.com/86133.html).
> 
> Also important: I just realized next Friday is Xmas lmao (things are busy don't judge me!!!) so next week's update will come later on the weekend. I'm hoping to find time either Saturday or Sunday and any changes I'll let you know @ my [tumblr](http://masterofinfinities.tumblr.com/), so keep an eye out! 
> 
> And before this becomes huge lmao I just wanted to tell you guys there are just three more chapters to the story (and a bonus epilogue). This changed several times but I just sent the second to last chapter to my beta and it's official. Are you excited about the conclusion? I hope so ;) <3 let me know your thoughts on this chapter! your comments are like my energy drinks <3 a merry Christmas to yall. Have fun, eat lots, and stay safe!


	38. A Cathedral of Sailors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was edited by the always amazing @jeparlepasfrancais. I'm always grateful.

“All night I stretched my arms across him, rivers of blood, the dark woods, singing with all my skin and bone **_Please keep him safe._** _Let him lay his head on my chest and we will be like sailors, swimming in the sound of it, dashed to pieces._ Makes a cathedral, him pressing against me, his lips at my neck, and yes, I do believe his mouth is heaven, his kisses falling over me like stars." - Saying your Names, Richard Siken.

* * *

Hermione’s fraternal grandfather had arrived at Port of Tilbury two years before the world barged into the Golden Age of Capitalism. 

He was one of the more than five hundred Caribbean men that hit the docks of River Thames with a head full of dreams and a plan to return home after making himself some money. Before meeting Hermione’s grandmother, he had lived in run-down apartments in Brixton and gotten himself an English last name. His future wife was a young girl who at first hadn’t given him the time of the day, only to accept his ring a couple of months later.

They’d bought a two-story brick building in the thick of Brixton, where they had raised their only child, who’d come to raise his family there, as well. 

Hermione had loved living in such an ethnically diverse area. Before Hogwarts, her dentist parents had enrolled her into a posh private school where she’d been an outcast for more reasons than one. Being in Brixton meant she’d be only excluded for the strange outbursts of magic no one could explain, not for things she couldn’t change. 

As they walked hand in hand down the street, Hermione pointed out her favorite haunts to Draco, amused by the way that his eyes lit up at colorful shop displays or scowled at the seamless pace of a busy crowd. 

His hand steadied hers as she reached for the building’s keys. Her childhood home was nestled between an Indian restaurant and a hair salon; the mixed scent of hair dye and chole masala was oddly comforting to her, though it wrinkled Draco’s nose. 

“We used to rent the flat upstairs,” said Hermione, pushing her shoulder against the iron gate. It took a bit of wiggling before it flew open, revealing a narrow stone staircase. “The tenants moved to France just a month before I obliviated my parents. I was lucky, I guess.” He squeezed her hand, and she gave him a grateful look before warning, “watch your feet,” carefully stepping over a cracked step. “I was going to fix that.”

“How long since the last time you’ve been here, Granger?” he asked as they walked towards the only door at the end of the small hallway. 

“A year, give or take,” she shrugged, unlocking the door. “I cast a periodical cleaning spell over the entire building. It’s not dirty. Don’t worry.”

“I wasn’t worried about that,” he scoffed. She shot him a pointed look. “Fine, just a bit.”

Hermione bit back a smile and pushed open the door. 

The flat _was_ clean, but it was also vacant. She wasn’t one of those people who could keep a place intact, as if its residents would return one day and continue their lives as if they’d never left, without missing a beat.

Instead, she’d donated all of the furniture, taking some of her belongings back to the flat she used to share with Harry. Most of her family’s possessions had been stored inside of cardboard boxes that had been pushed against a wall in the living room, never to be opened again. 

It was the first place Draco’s eyes landed, but he thankfully didn’t say anything, choosing to pivot and scan the rest of the space. It made for an odd picture -- she had never imagined bringing him there, hadn’t thought it further after she first mentioned it, either, and she couldn’t help but shift with uncertainty as she wondered what he _saw._

What ran through Draco Malfoy’s mind as he examined her childhood home? A wizard who came from old money and a family tree of magical royalty. A wizard who had spent his entire life wrapped up in wealth and luxury, proud of what it meant.

But there was a tiny smile on his face, and he didn’t look uncomfortable, albeit slightly overwhelmed. It was enough to soothe her frayed nerves. 

“Quit being a dreadful host and give me a tour, Granger, will you? Honestly.” He let out an exasperated sound, offering her his hand. Hermione intertwined their fingers before tugging him around -- to the kitchen, to the balcony overlooking the busy street. To her parents’ empty suite and her father’s office, to her mother’s crafts room, and finally, her childhood bedroom. 

“So, this is it,” she said, waving her hands around. “Are you blown away by the class and style?”

“Certainly,” he drawled. “Aren’t you supposed to have a bed in here?”

“I wouldn’t shag you in my childhood bed, Malfoy. How crass of you.”

“I think I could’ve convinced you,” he whispered, voice dropping an octave. Hermione felt a trail of goosebumps traveling down her skin. “What’s that?”

She followed his gaze, landing on a spot where the wall was slightly dented. There was a long strip that tore through the purple paint, exposing the off-white plaster underneath. A smile immediately overtook her face as she dragged Draco forward, running her free hand over the spot. “This was the result of my first big magical outburst.”

“Yeah?”

She hummed in agreement. “I borrowed this horror book from my school’s library. I wasn’t allowed to read it, so I hid it in my backpack and took it out after my mum tucked me in at night. I’d get underneath my covers and read it with a flashlight. It’s a hand-held device with light, like a portable _Lumos_ , you know? Well, I finished the book but I got very scared. I swear I saw monsters around my room. So I decided to fight them--”

He laughed loudly. “Of course you did, for Salazar’s sake. Not to hide, or call your parents. You know, like normal children would do.”

She stuck her tongue out and he rolled his eyes. “To be honest, I don’t remember _what_ I planned to do, but I stood up, and I thought hard about how I wanted them to leave me alone. My body was so overcharged, you know? I knew it was going to work. Then suddenly everything around me felt like it was exploding. Books flew around the room, my shelf got knocked around, and that was how this dent came to be.”

“And your parents?”

She beamed with pride. “Never found out. They didn’t hear it, surprisingly, and I put everything back in place then moved my bookshelf around until it hid that spot.”

“I don’t know how I ever thought you were a rule-follower, Granger.” His voice was full of fondness, and she squeezed their hands together before letting go. 

“I follow the rules unless I absolutely can’t. It’s not my fault it happens to be so often,” sniffed Hermione, nudging him to sit with her on the floor. Once he joined her, she burrowed underneath his arm. “Remember the first time we sat like this?”

“I slapped you in the face,” he said through a chuckle. “You weren’t snuggling against me then.”

“Yeah.” She ran her eyes over his profile, catching the strain still present on his face. “What did you mean about there not being an after for you _?_ ”

While his mouth opened to speak, he continued to avoid her gaze. “Douglass found out my mother’s cheating on my father with our lawyer,” he said, licking his lips. “He’ll expose her if I don’t marry Daphne and follow through with the rest of his plans for me.”

“I’m not sure I understand, Draco,” she said carefully. “Your mother’s a grown woman, she can handle flak from her friends. Knowing that group, they’ve probably done much worse.”

He chuckled dryly, finally returning her gaze. “Reputation is everything to her. I don’t think she’d be able to take it. And if that was all, I’d say screw it, but--” He closed his eyes. “In my mother’s binding vow, she swore to never dishonor my father’s name. If she does, she’ll lose the rights to anything related to the House of Malfoy. Galleons, the estate, everything.”

She rested her forehead against his. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “I don’t know what to do. If I accept Douglass’s proposition, I’m stuck with no way out. If I don’t, then my mother loses everything. What kind of choice is that, Granger?”

Hermione didn’t respond. She couldn’t -- emotion was thick in her throat. She felt an overwhelming sense of helplessness, not knowing how to help him, mixed with an urge to do _anything_ she could to change fate. In the past few weeks, Draco had been freer than she’d thought him capable of. He’d blossomed with purpose. 

Her heart pounded and Hermione _couldn’t_ \-- she _wouldn’t_ let him lose it. 

“What if we offer to stop?”

“Excuse me?”

“We can tell Douglass we’ll drop the manhunt,” she said, biting her lip. “I mean, we’ve set things in motion, right? People _know_ enough to not vote for Robards. We’ll stop, and he’ll let you go, and we’ve done enough. Haven’t we?”

Draco pressed a kiss to her forehead, then to each of her eyelids, then to her lips. “You would never be able to do that, Granger.”

“I could,” she croaked out. “For _you_. Because we’ve done enough, haven’t we?”

“ _I_ haven’t done remotely enough,” he said, giving her a bittersweet smile. He drew her into another kiss, It more out of affection than desire. “And I’d never let you go down that route.”

“But if he has you,” she whispered, her eyes burning, “that means _I_ can’t have you.”

“You will always have me, love,” he muttered against her lips, his breath tickling her nose. “No question about it.”

For the first time in a long time, Hermione didn’t believe him. 

_

Hermione tapped her heels against the marble floor and stuck her nose in the air, refusing to show any sign of discomfort. Snobby-looking witches and wizards were openly staring at her from under their noses, as if they could smell that she didn’t belong. 

She’d walked straight into the enemy’s lair, and it was too late for her to back out now. 

After what felt like forever, Harry returned to her side, fingers gripping two goblets of elf-made wine. He watched with wide eyes as she snatched one before chugging it down. “I wish Ginny was here,” she said, placing the goblet on the first passing tray before dabbing her mouth with a nearby fancy-looking handkerchief. 

Elves wove around them like a well-trained militia. She was sure most of the guests barely noticed them, but Hermione had half a mind to find a microphone and dust off one of her old S.P.E.W speeches. 

“I’m not fun enough to distract you from this celebration of pureblood unity?”

“You’re not.”

“Merlin, you’re snippy today,” chuckled Harry. 

Hermione’s glare didn’t hold for long before she forced herself to smile apologetically. 

She could admit when she was being unfair. Harry had been just as taken aback by Douglass Greengrass’s invitation as she’d been. 

Both of them had received personalized, handwritten letters from Douglass Greengrass requesting their presence at Astoria and Carrow’s engagement party. The fact that Draco and Daphne hadn’t gotten a party of their own engagement was enough for her to guess he was trying to distract the masses. 

Guaranteeing she and Harry would be there would be sure to draw the reporters.

She knew if they didn’t show up, Douglass would spin their absence as weakness and fear. And while Hermione could deal with that reputation, Harry couldn’t. She couldn’t let him go alone. 

And if she wanted to pretend to herself that was the only reason -- that it had nothing to do with torturing herself watching Draco and Daphne breathing life into their lies, then so be it. 

Her brain shouted at her to prepare herself for the worse. To get used to the hurt before it could consume her, and for the first time in a long while, Hermione would listen to it rather than her emotions. 

But so far, she felt only uncomfortable, on the spot, and not the slightest bit prepared for whatever was coming next. Nor was she willing to explain to Harry the plethora of reasons that made her eager to bite off the head of the first person who gave her the opportunity. 

“I don’t like how these people look at me,” she replied, truthfully. “I feel like half of them want to kill me, and the less homicidal half wants to rub my face in the dirt.”

Harry nodded knowingly, slowly sipping his wine. “Do you want to leave?”

“We’ve just gotten here, it’s too soon,” she said, grabbing an hors d'oeuvre from a passing tray. “Do you think there’s a chance they poisoned this?” she said, holding up the blini.

Harry arched a brow. “I think that’d be kind of obvious, wouldn’t it?”

“After what they did to Hughman, I’d rather be safe than sorry,” said Hermione, vanishing the food in her hand. “I’m not that hungry.” 

“I don’t even want to talk about that,” groaned Harry. “I’ve had several meetings this week about launching the investigation. I understand that the Wizengamot’s corrupt, but I didn’t think they’d be so _obvious_ about it. They keep blocking me, which they shouldn’t even be allowed to do.”

Hermione fought the urge to massage her temples. She didn’t know what to tell Harry -- they’d hit a standstill. She’d spent the past couple of days obsessing over every possible course of action, but none of them held water. Hermione felt her expectations crumbling like a sandcastle. _Come on, you’re better than this_. 

But her brain was in a perpetual fogged state. She’d been outplayed and left heartbroken.

She blinked at the realization. 

She was _heartbroken._

Outwardly, nothing had changed in hers and Draco’s relationship-- they still slept in the same bed and spent every waking moment together. But there was this sense of dread hanging over their heads, the sudden knowledge that if Robards won, they’d be done in more ways than one.

Hermione had prepared herself for the possibility of losing. She’d prepared herself to form a resistance, to fight until she was no longer able. She wasn’t scared of battle, anymore. 

But Hermione had lulled herself into a false sense of security. In her fictional scenarios, she had calculated that Draco would be on her side, rather than stuck with those they were fighting against. 

It terrified her that they’d be a casualty of his sense of obligation. And it shattered her heart.

Watching Draco and Daphne make laps around the room together furthered her sense of doom. It didn’t help that he threw longing glances in her direction when he thought he’d get away with it. 

“I thought they were supposed to have called the engagement off by now,” said Harry, nodding towards the so-called couple. Hermione hadn’t realized she’d been rubbing the left side of her chest. “This must suck for you.”

“They will soon,” she lied. “They’re just waiting for the right time.”

Harry must have caught something in her tone, because his expression hardened. Thankfully, before he could ask her any more questions, he was cut off by a murmur that ran through the room. They both turned towards the entrance, their eyes falling on the young girl slowly descending the stairs. 

Astoria Greengrass was a beauty. But she looked nothing like her sister. 

Daphne was elegant and graceful, but also tall, fox-eyed, and stone-faced more often than not. Astoria, even from afar, seemed frail. She was thin, tiny, and walked so lightly it was almost as if she was levitating above the stairs, her crystal sandals barely touching the ground. 

The older man on her arm was Douglass Greengrass. 

He was barely taller than his daughter, a few silver strands of hair coverings his head. His dark robes were sharply cut and seemingly expensive but looked bleak and lackluster on him. 

“Can you believe that _that_ is the man behind it all?” muttered Harry. 

“My mum used to tell me there’s nothing more dangerous than a wolf in sheep’s clothing,” she whispered back, watching Douglass guide his daughter towards her husband-to-be. Before reaching Carrow, he paused to plant a kiss on Daphne’s cheek and firmly shake Draco’s hand. There was a bright smile on Douglass’s face, and when Astoria looked up at him, she glowed. “So yes, I can believe it.”

Harry let out a contemplative noise. “I haven’t seen Robards around anywhere.”

“How is that going, by the way?” asked Hermione, turning away from the scene. It felt like watching Draco offer his wrists for Douglass to lock in the shackles. 

“He demanded to know why I withdrew my support, and I told him I had to prioritize the department’s interests,” he shrugged. “Merlin, I was seconds away from Stupefying him.”

Hermione snorted. “I’m glad you controlled the urge.”

“Barely,” muttered Harry. He shoved one hand in his pocket before he leveled her with a cautious gaze. “You know, _my_ wedding dinner is coming soon. I don’t know why the Wizarding World draws out festivities so much -- I mean, it’s not like we’ve got the galleons for it.”

She narrowed her eyes into slits. “You’ve got money, Harry.”

“Not as much as people expect us to spend,” he retorted. “The initial plan was for you and Ron to sit together, but maybe we should register Malfoy as your plus-one?”

The casualness in his tone made Hermione swallow sharply. She nervously chewed on her bottom lip. “I think--” she began cautiously, but before she could continue, her eyes flickered over Harry’s shoulder. A tall witch moved to the side, revealing the unmistakable figure of Narcissa Malfoy. 

She wore a beautiful jet-black gown; its boned corset hugged her body down to her narrow waist and hips, while its skirt flared towards the floor. The off-shoulder neckline was modest, calling attention to the emeralds in her necklace, which sparkled even from across the room. The longer Hermione stood watching her laugh and chat with her friends, light-hearted and gleeful, as if she wasn’t helping Douglass destroy them all, the tighter her anger strangled her. 

_Why does he have to suffer for this?_ she thought furiously. _Why should he be the one sacrificing himself? Why can’t we be selfish, for once?_

Seeing her head turn abruptly towards Narcissa, Harry fell silent. “Are you okay?” he asked hesitantly. “The way you’re looking at her--”

“Hold that thought,” said Hermione, ignoring his startled look. 

She didn’t spare him another glance as she made a beeline for the group. She plucked a wine goblet from a tray, just for something to hold, before tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and forcing herself in the middle of them. 

“Good evening, ladies,” she smiled brightly. “You look gorgeous,” she told one of the other middle-aged witches circling Narcissa.

“You do as well, Miss Granger,” said a raven-haired woman, her eyes traveling over Hemione’s body before curling her lip in distaste. “Is that an Emeraude design? I hear she’s quite popular these days. Not for me, but I guess it has its charms.”

Hermione wore a simple floor-length dress in taupe. Its thin straps dug painfully into her shoulders, and the gathered waist gave way to a slit that started on her thigh. It was far from the most beautiful, or comfortable, thing she’d ever worn. 

But her smile didn’t falter. “I’ve got no idea,” she said in a pleasant tone. “She sent it to me directly.”

“I’m sure Miss Granger’s too busy saving the Wizarding world to think much about dresses,” said Narcissa. The way she looked at Hermione wasn’t necessarily unkind, but made clear that she was being assessed.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said Hermione with a smile. “I’ve got plenty of time for both.” 

“Are you enjoying the celebrations?” 

“The crowd is amazing,” said Hermione, taking a sip from her goblet. Silence fell over them like a blanket, and before the awkwardness in the air could stifle her further, she asked, “Could I speak with you in private, Mrs. Malfoy?”

Narcissa looked ready to refuse, but her friends were watching them with avid attention, their eyes glistening with curiosity. “Of course,” she conceded through a tight smile. 

Hermione returned her smile and gestured in front of her. Narcissa gracefully escorted them away from the group to a door by a balcony. 

Stalling, Hermione walked out towards the stone balcony and looked out over the village. She realized someone had cast a Warming Charm on the building -- the bitter December air didn’t cut into her face, feeling instead like a soft breeze that tousled her hair. 

She inhaled sharply, staring intently into the night sky as she heard the door shut, then soft footsteps approaching her side. Her anger was simmering inside of her, and she had to chew on her bottom lip to keep it from tumbling out. 

When she felt less rattled, less prone to sound insane, Hermione muttered. “I was on a balcony like this with Draco once,” she croaked out. “Before we were even friends. Back then, he flirted with me without even realizing it.”

“Doesn’t sound like my child.”

“Maybe we don’t know the same person, then.”

Narcissa contemplated her words for a moment. “I’m sure that’s true,” she said in a steady voice, as if there was nothing out of the ordinary about any of this. 

_We don’t,_ thought Hermione bitterly. Her lips parted, and at first, nothing came out. Narcissa wasn’t even looking her in the eye -- she wasn’t sure that the woman thought her deserving of even that small amount of respect. It made the fire inside of her burn even hotter.

“Are you happy tonight?” said Hermione, surprising herself with how steady her tone was. 

Narcissa’s cold eyes met hers but didn’t linger. “Do you plan to stall for the entire night, or will you get to your point, Miss Granger? I’m not sure if you’re aware, but this is a party, and I’d much rather be celebrating that young couple’s love than hide out here in the cold with you.”

A loud, dry chuckle escaped Hermione’s mouth. “Because you’re all about celebrating young love, of course,” she said. Narcissa looked ready to protest, but she pressed on. “Don’t worry. Since you seem confused, I’ll make it clear for you. I know you’re well aware of my relationship with your son.”

“It’s something I’d rather forget, if you don’t mind,” she snapped. Narcissa made to leave, but Hermione stepped in front of her. “How dare you?” she said. “Move out of my way.”

“How dare youlet your child bear the consequences of your mistakes over and over again?” spat Hermione. “You know as well as I do that the only reason he’s here is because he’s taking the fall for you, _again_.”

Narcissa’s face fell momentarily before just transforming into an expression of contempt. “He told you about that?”

“Why wouldn’t he?” 

“Frankly, I don’t have a clue what that boy is thinking,” snapped Narcissa, her voice a decibel too loud. Hermione took a step back. “But the Draco I know--”

“Would agree to a loveless marriage because he doesn’t want you to face the consequences of your actions,” said Hermione, hearing her voice crack. She knew she was exposing herself in front of someone who’d take all the broken glass and turn them into a weapon to kill her. But at that moment, she wasn’t afraid of the repercussions. “I don’t want to see him hurt anymore.”

Narcissa’s face twisted and settled into anger. “I’m not the one who’s hurting him, Miss Granger. If you had never appeared in his life, he wouldn’t be in this position! He’d be in love with Daphne by now and happy about everything that is happening to him.”

“Oh my God,” shouted Hermione. “This is useless, isn’t it? You’re so bent on salvaging the Malfoy name that you’re willingly hurting him. I wouldn’t put it past you to have that bloody affair just to keep him trapped.”

“Excuse me?” said Narcissa, eyes flashing. “I’m his mother.”

“Then act like it.” 

“Don’t pretend you understand how my world works, Miss Granger. You’ve got no room to judge the decisions I make. And I’m sure Draco wouldn’t appreciate you shamelessly yelling at his mother like this.”

Hermione shook her head, somehow unsurprised. “Try to spin this whatever way you want, Mrs. Malfoy. I’m not the one running from the truth here.” Her grip on the wine goblet tightened and shook before she forcibly steadied it. “You’ve got the opportunity to save Draco and you’re choosing not to. If you’re willing to live with that, then I’m wasting my breath here.”

Narcissa didn’t answer, turning her back to Hermione. She felt her guts twist painfully and wondered if she’d gone too far. 

But she was in love, and angry, and for all the things she’d been so good at learning, Hermione had never been good at knowing when to give up. 

When Narcissa turned back to her, her jaw was clenched. “You’re not a mother. You have no idea what I’ve been through for my son. You have no right to judge me, or act like you have the right to give me a lesson on something you’ve never lived through.”

“I know _my_ mother would never sell me off to the enemy.”

Narcissa’s nostrils flared, and she took a step forward. “All I’ve ever done was to protect my son. You or he might not agree with how I’ve done it, but I know where my heart is.”

“You call this protecting?” 

“Yes,” she said firmly. “I set him on the path where I knew he would suffer less. I helped him align himself with those in power so he could rise with them. This isn’t about glamour, Miss Granger. This is about securing a future for my son.”

“And yourself,” muttered Hermione. Narcissa ignored her.

“It was all settled, then youappeared and he got all these ideas in his head. So yes, I’ll blame _you_ for how reckless he’s become.”

“He didn’t _become_ anything,” said Hermione, her voice calmer now. “He got comfortable in his skin. He’s building the life _he_ wants to live.”

“Draco doesn’t know what’s best for him.”

“That’s not for you to decide.” She hated how it sounded like pleading. “Douglass is trying to break him down--”

“Draco wasn’t the only person who got broken down,” bellowed Narcissa. Hermione felt her heartbeat racing. The witch’s cheeks were tainted red, and she ran a palm over her face before lowering her voice. “I was young and in love once, too, Miss Granger. Then I was older, alone, and trying to save my child from the man who swore to protect him. You think you have any idea--”

“Is that why you had an affair?” she said, watching a slew of emotions flashed across Narcissa’s face. She’d always thought of the woman as stoic and unflinching, but watching her break down reminded Hermione of Draco. They broke in pieces, like they couldn’t do it all at once. 

“I’m not discussing that with you,” said Narcissa at last, sounding deeply offended. 

“You want to know why your son is out there, shaking hands with a fake smile and broken glass in his shoes? Because the father of the woman you want him to marry threatened to expose your secret if he didn’t. Just when Draco was finally out from under his thumb, you dragged him back in. Because of you, he ruined the _one chance_ he had at happiness.”

“And I suppose you think that’s you?” shouted Narcissa. “What an arrogant, pigheaded thing to say! You have no idea what will make my son happy!”

“This isn’t about _me,_ Mrs. Malfoy. Blaming your decisions on our relationship won’t make this less cruel,” said Hermione, walking towards the door. She turned to look Narcissa in the eye. The expression on her face was nothing Hermione had ever seen. “I can’t speak for him,” she said softly. “Draco is very protective of you. But it’d be stupid to assume he’ll see you as anything other than his executioner.” 

Hermione didn’t wait for an answer before leaving the balcony. As soon as she stepped back into the ballroom, she saw Draco standing with the same witches Narcissa and she had left behind. She wondered how long they’d been out there. It felt like hours. 

But the party had barely moved along. Astoria and her fiancé were still making their rounds around the room, and when she actively searched for him, Hermione found Douglass staring firmly at her. 

She met his gaze, observing the man responsible for the inferno her life had become. It was strange -- she felt like their lives were so deeply intertwined, but this was the first time they’d been in the same room. 

A smirk rose to Douglass' face, and he tipped his head towards her. Hermione lifted her goblet of wine into the air and forced herself to smile back. Off to her left, someone snapped a photo. 

In her head, Hermione imagined him saying -- _there’s no white flag to be waved here._

 _I’m not quite finished destroying you_ , she would say back. 

It didn’t take long before someone called for Douglass’s attention and his gaze drifted from hers. As soon as it did, Hermione placed her goblet on the ledge and walked straight out of the room.

_

Draco shed his coat, letting it fall in a heap near the staircase as he raised his wand to light up the bedroom. He looked around and sighed before sagging into the mattress, flinging his arm over his eyes.

His head had been throbbing for hours. No, for _days_ now. A migraine that never seemed to quit, not even in his sleep. 

_Fuck_ , he groaned inwardly. He needed a break from his damn mind. 

He let out a sharp hiss when a familiar weight pressed down on him. One of his arms moved of its own accord, wrapping around Granger’s waist. His other arm gripped at her bare thigh, sleepily blinking up at her. 

Granger’s hair was in his favorite state of wildness, and her brown eyes seemed darker under the bright light. He raked his eyes over her body, heart skipping a beat when he noticed she wasn’t wearing a single thing. When he sat up, securing her against him, her breasts rubbed against the fabric of his shirt.

“I thought you were still at the party,” he muttered against her cleavage, planting kisses over the path of firm skin. 

“I barely stayed an hour,” muttered Granger, her voice taking on the roughness that always started a fire within his chest and stomach. He ran his tongue along the curve of her neck, she let out an almost inaudible gasp. “I wish we could go back,” she whimpered. 

“To the party?” he asked, nibbling at her ear. Granger’s next words were lost in a moan. 

“No.” Her forehead dropped to his shoulder, and her body shook he dragged his fingers to where she craved the most. “Forget about it.”

Granger swallowed his protest with her lips, pulling him into a long and deep kiss. One of her hands gripped at the hair in the back of his neck, while the other fought to pull him out of his pants. His mind went blank as his palms cupped her face, tugging her closer against him.

He forgot about his migraine completely when Granger guided him inside of her, fitting around him like a glove. 

He wrapped his tongue around hers, sucking and biting until she whimpered. While Granger rolled her hips in a rhythm of her own making, his mind stumbled into clarity. 

Draco gasped breathlessly against her mouth, urging her to pick up the pace, to take him deeper and faster and rawer. Her nails dug into the fabric of his shirt, trying to sink into his skin. And he’d let her. 

He hitched his hips upward, and their kiss broke as her head fell back. He latched into her neck instead, and their breaths and moans synchronized, the heat rising and pooling into his abdomen until it was too unbearable to hold inside. He exploded within her, hips spasming until it dragged her right along with him. 

And when he fell against the bed, Granger nestled her head against his neck, nose rubbing up and down the column of his throat. 

“We’re going to figure out how, Granger,” he muttered, “to go back.”

She pressed her palm against his chest and brushed a kiss against his jaw. 

“Alright,” she said, and he hoped like hell that she meant it. 

_

Draco bit back a laugh as she stared at Granger, sleeping somewhere beneath the sheets. The colder the weather got, the deeper she burrowed herself into the blankets, wrapping herself around him during the night. 

He chuckled at the pillow marks on her cheeks, feeling his bad mood dissipate like clouds. “She’s such a mess,” he said under his breath. She was snoring softly, and her hair had twisted into knots he didn’t dare run his fingers through. He watched her for a long period, feeling uneasy about it but not enough to stop.

When his growling stomach disturbed the peace, he carefully unwrapped her arm from his waist, cautiously inching out of bed. His feet hit the floor louder than he’d hoped, and he let out a sigh of relief when she only turned on her back. 

Draco yawned as he dragged himself down to the kitchen. He opened the fridge but paused when he noticed Crookshanks perched on the countertops. He frowned and faced the cat, who surprisingly didn’t growl back at him. 

He rested his elbows on the table and scrutinized the ball of orange fur. Time had eased their strained acquaintance into non-existence. They seemed to have come to a mutual agreement to ignore each other around the flat. But Draco’s sleep-induced brain seemed determined to laser focus on the cat. He couldn’t help feeling resentful as he remembered how easily the demented animal had accepted Theo. 

But now -- Crookshanks wasn’t growling at him or baring his teeth. It had been a while since he’d last jumped on the bed at the perfect moment to cockblock him. So _maybe_ \--

Draco lifted his hand, slowly and cautiously reaching for the cat. It was an out-of-body experience; he felt like he was watching himself from thirty feet above. _What are you doing_ , he asked himself as he inched his hand closer. 

When Crookshanks didn’t make any sudden moves, he lowered his palm to pet his soft fur. 

He had barely made contact when Crookshanks shot back, his ugly mouth opening to let out a loud hiss and claws scratching against the countertop as he bared his fangs. Draco flinched. “ _Fuck_ you, you disgusting fucking beast,” he snapped, snatching his hand out of biting range. 

“What are you doing?”

Draco’s head whirled towards the entrance of the kitchen. Granger stood with her head inclined, staring at him with an unimpressed look on her face. He had never felt so judged in his life. “Nothing,” he said casually, not daring to look back at the cat. “I thought you were sleeping.”

“You woke me up when you left the bed with the subtlety of a bloody giant,” she grunted, brushing past him and towards the fridge.

He frowned. “That’s bold coming from someone who treats me as her teddy bear.”

“ _Please,_ you’re the one who koala-hugged me the entire night.”

“That’s slander,” grunted Draco, accepting the items she handed him as they moved around the kitchen with familiarity. When he turned to brew the coffee, she heard her cooing at the cat. “I can’t understand how you tolerate him.”

“Oh, he’s a sweetheart. And look at you making coffee without asking me to explain the proper water-to-coffee-grounds ratio three times in a row,” she smirked. “I think you’re ready to learn how to make spaghetti.”

He turned to her with a scowl. “You think you got me all domesticated, don’t you?”

“I’m just glad that you have a chance of survival without an elf tending to your basic needs.”

“Touche,” he muttered, handing her the mug.

They set up the table together, Granger taking her usual seat across from him to look out the window. He watched as she buttered a loaf of bread with unusual vigor. 

“Leave some for me, would you?” he said, and she mimed throwing the loaf at his head. He ducked. “Hey, pass the cream --” 

The sound of a beak scratching against the windowpane interrupted him. Draco turned around to watch as Granger crossed the room in a flash. “I know that owl,” he muttered under his breath, pushing away from the table to follow her. “That’s one of my family’s owls,” he said in a louder voice, watching as she ripped open the letter’s seal. 

His concern grew when Granger exhaled a gasp of surprise. He rushed forward, taking the letter from her outstretched hand. 

_Dearest Draco,_

_and Miss Hermione Granger,_

_I expect you for dinner in the near future._

_As circumstances have it, my new place of residence isn’t large enough to accommodate so many elves. We shall determine when you can take that useless quivering creature of yours. I assume she’s capable enough to serve two young wizards such as yourselves since she has no ability whatsoever to handle my more refined needs._

_At this time, I’m sorting out my personal affairs. I’ll request you refrain from mentioning this to others, but you’ll likely come across my interview with a popular and renowned Wizarding magazine soon enough. Witch Weekly, to clarify, if Miss Granger isn’t aware._

_There are no shackles anymore, Draco. I promise you this._

_I’ll be quite busy for the next few weeks, but please, inform me of your earliest date of convenience so we can sort out the details._

_With love,_

_Narcissa Black,_

**_The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black_ **

Draco crumbled the letter, smoothening back the wrinkles as soon as he realized what he’d done. He set it down on the coffee table where it’d be safe from his touch, and when he tried to ball his hands into fists, Granger reached to stop him. 

She tangled their fingers together, and when he dared raise his eyes, she beamed at him so beautifully -- eyes slanted into his favorite half-moon smile. 

He couldn’t bring himself to smile back, but when he closed his eyes and felt his chest sag with the first breath he’d taken in days, the image of her was imprinted in his mind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know 2020 has been challenging and the holidays can also be hard, but I hope you all had a great Christmas. I wrote some moments in this chapter specifically to help keep your spirits up, or, if you aren't feeling particularly good, to be a moment of joy amidst the madness.
> 
> Your response to the last chapter was great! HONESTLY!! I'm in the middle of some last-minute packing atm, so I'll be answering all of you tomorrow during my 6-hour car trip! I appreciate every single comment!
> 
> I'm taking a week out of town (safe from COVID) to recharge, so I'll only be able to post January 4th when I'm back home! I hope you guys have an enjoyable New Year. Let me know what you think of this one! Tysm <3


	39. Epiphany in Gold Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to the best beta @jeparlepasfrancais for the amazing work on this chapter, as always. Without her help, we wouldn't have gotten this far :)

**“Let’s jump ahead to the moment of epiphany, in gold light,** as the camera pans to where the action is (...) But it doesn’t work, these erasures, this constant refolding of the pleats. There were some nice parts, sure (...) I’m sorry it’s such a lousy story.” Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out, Richard Siken

* * *

Narcissa Black had set the final pieces in motion. 

When she told her, Daphne had _giggled_ , her eyes glittering with satisfaction -- she had walked into the study and handed her father a copy of _Witch Weekly_ , before sitting back and watching his eyes widen as he furiously flipped to the interview. The result had been a split second of smashed firewhiskey bottles and angry shouts that bleed into roars. 

She’d never seen him as anything but completely in control. But something in him snapped. The copy of _Witch Weekly_ had become ribbons blanketing the dark floors, and though Narcissa’s face had been split into a thousand papercuts, the truth of the matter remained--

The entire Wizarding world now knew of her dishonor. And she was as free as she had made Draco and Daphne. 

But the end didn’t really begin with any of them. 

And Hermione admitted with great reluctance that the first person to give her hope wasn’t someone she believed even capable of the feeling.

_

She greeted them with a scowl. “Are you one of _those_ couples now?”

“Excuse me?” snapped Hermione, her voice rising before she could try to keep it level. Less than two seconds at the Parkison Manor and her annoyance was already bursting at the seams. Hermione wasn’t thrilled that Pansy knew she didn’t have to try very hard to make her lose her cool. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Relax, Granger.” She flicked her hair over her shoulder as she turned her back to them and swished over to the bergère. Hermione didn’t move until Draco tugged at her hand. “It’s a fair question. Don’t you remember how your _ex_ acted while he was dating Lavender? I was wondering if you were prone to the same tasteless, over-the-top behavior and had dragged Draco down in your gaucherie.”

It was Draco’s turn to balk. “You did not just _compare_ \--”

“You’re both testy today, aren’t you?” interrupted Pansy. It took Hermione an embarrassingly long moment to pinpoint what was making her sound so odd. 

The usual malice was absent from Pansy’s voice. She was just teasing them _._

Hermione clamped her lips together before she started to gape like a fish, choosing to unsubtly nudge Draco’s shoulder instead -- the faster they hashed it out, the faster they left. 

“I hope you called us here for a good reason?” he said, taking the hint. He rubbed his thumb over Granger’s knuckles.

“I called _you_ here for a good reason, yes,” she said pointedly. Hermione began to sit up, but Draco’s tight hold stopped her. Pansy blinked with amusement, her lips curling up as she said without an ounce of shame, “But first, I want an unbreakable vow.” 

Against her best wishes, Hermione’s mouth fell open. “You’ve got some nerve.”

“I’m not doing charity here, Granger.” 

“Who’s asking you to?” she got up and offered Draco her hand. “Frankly, we’re done making deals with the devil. I don’t know what you think you have, but it’s not worth what you want in exchange.”

“Hermione--” tried Draco. The pointed look she gave him was enough of a warning, and he didn’t waste another second before standing up to join her.

Pansy shot them an unimpressed look. “You’re making a mistake. What I have--”

“We’ll take our chances,” replied Hermione, giving her a flat smile before marching towards the fireplace. She knew Draco wasn’t happy -- she knew an argument was brewing and would erupt as soon as they arrived home. But they presented a united front, and it was enough to make her stand a little taller.

They were almost out when they heard Pansy exhale loudly. “ _Fine.”_

Draco almost halted, but Hermione pulled him with her until Pansy repeated, louder and with more urgency, “I said _fine!_ I don’t need a bloody unbreakable vow, for Salazar’s sake.”

Hermione forced down her smile and turned to Draco, who was staring down at her with a crease in his forehead. A silent conversation passed between them -- she could almost hear his haughty tone as he snapped, _“you’re being bloody petty.”_

And from the way his scowl deepened, she knew he understood her response would be, _“and what about it?”_

When at last he gave her a nod, Hermione turned back to Pansy. The Slytherin met her gaze at first, but when they walked back over to her and sat down, she began to study her nails with an air of indifference. “I still need your word that I’ll be protected.”

“I already told you that the other day, Pansy. Can we move on?” sighed Draco.

“Not _you_. _You_ can barely protect yourself.” she snapped, then abruptly turned to Hermione. “ _You_ , on the other hand, have the next Minister of Magic and Head of the DMLE hanging on your every bloody word. I’d ask if you had them under an Imperio, but I’m guessing they’re just stupid. Nevertheless, if you want my help, I need you to promise that my name won’t be linked to anything that comes out about Robards and Douglass.”

Hermione shrugged. “Fine.”

“ _And_ I want a job with Jones, and not a bogus position either. I want to be involved.”

Hermione arched a brow. “I can put in a good word, but I make no promises. _I_ certainly wouldn’t hire you if I were under wandpoint, and Hestia’s not the fool you think she is.” 

“ _Granger,_ ” said Pansy through gritted teeth. 

“Don’t push me, Parkinson. I don’t have to measure my words with you anymore.” 

They locked gazes, silently hoping the other would admit defeat. Draco’s eyes flicked between them as if earnestly following a Quidditch coin toss. 

“A job with Potter, then?”

Hermione studied her for another beat. Questions were pressing to the forefront of her mind. They all knew Pansy didn’t _need_ to work. She had enough galleons in her vaults to last her a lifetime, and with her family connections, she could easily find a well-paid, mostly honorary position at any major company she chose. 

But this wasn’t about money. It wasn’t even about reputation, if Hermione had assessed the situation correctly. 

Pansy and Daphne couldn’t be more different, but there was a similar edge to them -- like they both had been born dangling from the end of a tether. If it was independence that Pansy Parkinson craved, not even their decade-old feud would prevent Hermione from helping her. 

“That could be done,” she conceded. “I still make no promises, but I’m willing to try.”

Pansy’s face sagged with relief for only a moment. When she abruptly left the room, Draco bent down to whisper in Hermione’s ear. “She’s grateful.” 

“That was gratitude? Please.”

Draco snickered under his breath, failing to smother the sound when Pansy sauntered back into the room. She glared at him but didn’t sit again, instead holding out a stack of parchment that Hermione didn’t hesitate before taking. 

“The reason Robards hasn't been caught yet is because no one with my skills had been close to him,” she muttered. Hermione refrained from commenting as she went through each letter, her face heating the more that she read. 

“You just _took_ this? It was just that easy?” asked Draco, sounding doubtful. 

“Seducing him to distraction was the easy part,” she muttered flatly. “Actually finding this and making sure he didn’t miss it took time and mastery. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“I should thank whoever came up with sleeping droughts strong enough to take out a centaur and dull-witted wizards that will drink anything a witch in a low-cut dress puts in front of them.”

Hermione didn’t say anything as she handed Draco the letters. 

They were conversations between Douglass and Robards -- detailed back-and-forth in which they bragged about making a fool out of Harry and the DMLE. The letters definitely answered the question of who was behind the embezzlement. They gave details about the nature of Hughman’s involvement and his willingness to release the Death-Eaters from the program whenever ordered to do so. The two of them went on at length about their plans to shut up Hermione during the Rookwood ordeal. 

It was all there -- in handwriting and with their family crests, at that. 

And it felt almost too easy. 

“The problem is,” said Draco, lifting his eyes from the letters with a contrite expression. “History says the Wizengamot is going to dismiss this like they’ve done everything else. Even with the protests, they aren’t exactly budging--”

“For Salazar’s sake,” sighed Pansy. “Are you bloody daft?”

Draco sneered. “Listen, you haven’t--”

“I’ve been following your stupidity close enough to know--”

“You know what, Pansy--”

“Let her speak, Draco,” piped up Hermione, looking pointedly at Pansy. “What did you see that we haven’t?”

Pansy folded her arms over her chest and said grudgingly. _“You_ are the only person in the limelight who has said a word against the Wizengamot, Granger. But you don’t actually hold a position of power, do you? And no one else has backed you up. Which for Jones is understandable, but what exactly is Potter waiting for?”

“What do you mean?” snapped Draco. 

She curled her lips at him. “He’s the bloody Boy Who Lived,” she said, slowly, as if speaking to a child. “Who the fuck is more suited to put pressure on a centuries-old institution?”

Hermione let her words sink in as Pansy and Draco continued to argue.

“I’m just saying--”

“You’ve been here for a half a second--”

“Robards knew Potter’s potential and he used it to his advantage. _You_ haven’t used Potter at all, and that’s why you haven’t been able to attack the actual system. Frankly, it’s so obvious--”

“The Wizengamot is corrupt, Pansy. They don’t bloody care. Robards’ strategy worked with the public, just like ours is working. When it comes to--”

“You’re both right,” said Hermione, startling them into silence. “Draco, we need to go now. But _you’re_ coming too.”

“Excuse me?” said Pansy, gaping as she watched Hermione start to walk towards the fireplace.

“Didn’t you want to work for Harry?” she said over her shoulder. “Here’s your chance.”

_

Hermione was leaning against the wall, sipping a lukewarm cup of coffee as Harry tugged nervously at his tie. Their impromptu appearance had thrown him for a loop, but after allowing Pansy the floor to make her case, he hadn’t put up much argument. 

“I don’t like her,” said Ginny from the corner of her mouth. Her poorly restrained irritation was beginning to roll off of her in waves. It’d been a while since Hermione had seen a Weasley emotional outburst, and she couldn’t help but feel amused. “You ruined my lunch date with this. No points for my maid of honor!”

“I don’t like her either,” she muttered. “But she’s smart, and I think having her is going to be good for Harry's career. She can read the full picture in a way that he can’t.”

“You could do the same,” she said grudgingly. “You could bloody do it better than her.”

“Pansy wants the job, I don’t,” said Hermione. “I don’t think I’d be able to work here. The coffee is bloody awful.” Ginny snorted. “What?”

“You just sounded so much like Malfoy,” she said, jerking her head towards him. He was jutting out his chin, trying to appear cocksure, as he watched Pansy coach Harry. 

“I did not,” said Hermione, sounding insulted. 

“It’s cute,” shrugged Ginny. “Almost makes me want to forgive you, but I won’t. This means I’ll have to deal with Pansy Parkinson by association, which may lead me to cut a bitch.”

Hermione clicked her tongue. “Maybe you’ll be friends. Truth be told, I don’t think I’d succeed in this politics business. Pansy’s moral compass works a bit differently. She’ll be a thousand times better at it than me.”

“Oh, sure,” said Ginny wryly. “So you’re going to give it up after this? I _know_ you. You won’t be able to sit and just watch things unfold.”

The smile she gave her was bittersweet. “I don’t want to work for systems I don’t believe in, Ginny,” muttered Hermione. “I’d much rather take them down.”

The words hung between them for a second, and before Ginny could reply, Hermione pushed off the wall and said, “I need to use the loo, I’ll find you guys outside.”

“We’ll be the ones in the center of the bloodthirsty crowd,” said Ginny flatly, and Hermione shot her a smirk as she left Harry’s office. 

She ignored the eyes on her as she made her way out of the maze of corridors and offices. Hermione didn’t need the loo, but fresh air. She also wanted to see if the press had arrived, eager to get a feel for the atmosphere there.

Hermione stopped in front of the lifts, impatiently tapping her foot against the floor as she waited. From the corner of her eye, she caught a familiar flash of red -- her head snapped towards it so fast it blurred her eyes, and when her gaze landed on Ron, her stomach dropped. 

It was the first time Hermione had seen him in so long. And even if she knew, in her heart of hearts, that he wouldn’t curse at or look down on her, part of her prepared for it. 

But Ron looked different, even from across the room. 

In all the years they’d been half in love with each other, he’d never looked at her with much intensity, like he ached to know her past what she willingly showed. 

He hadn’t looked at her with the sort of the scalding, almost inevitable passion that she had learned from Draco. But during all those years they’d pulled each other together and pushed each other apart, he’d carried _something_ in his eyes. 

Now, it was nonexistent. 

It made her smile at him, and when he smiled back, she felt her lungs expand with relief. 

It felt like an end, too. 

_

Hermione pressed her back firmly against the wall as the lift lurched from one floor to the other. It was unnaturally empty, but she guessed it’d be soon brimming with a crowd returning from their lunch break. She gripped her empty coffee cup tighter in her hands, her eyes fixed on her feet as she waited to get to the atrium. 

Hermione didn’t immediately look up when she heard the doors open and two deliberate sets of footsteps enter the lift, content to ignore whoever it was in favor for a moment alone with her thoughts.

The new arrivals remained in silence, but soon, a familiar, unwelcoming feeling began to prickle the back of Hermione’s neck. 

“Fancy seeing you here, Miss Granger,” said a familiar voice.

Hermione slowly dragged her eyes upwards, sneering down at her was the pinched face of Rookwood. She noted that Gawain Robards was standing beside him. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Robards.”

Unsurprisingly, Rookwood was displeased by her indifference. “Are you blind, you cunt?”

“ _Please_ , Mr. Rookwood,” said Robards, his words sounding both appeasing and amused, as if he were only pretending to be put out by Rookwood’s crudeness. He turned to Hermione with a diplomatic smile, which only intensified her unease. “Good afternoon, Miss Granger. Please, call me Gawain.”

“I’d rather not,” she said pleasantly. He chuckled, but Rookwood took a menacing step forward. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather you put a leash on your dog before I’m forced to do it myself.”

“I see you still haven’t learned your place,” spat Rookwood. There had always been hatred in his eyes, but it was stronger now, as if he’d stopped caring who saw it. 

“I don’t see the need for such hostility, Miss Granger,” Robards piped up. He gripped Rookwood’s arm, dragging him to the other side of the lift. Hermione still couldn’t breathe any easier, since Robards was the one close to her instead. “I’d appreciate it if we all remained civil. After all, I’ve always acted like a gentleman in your presence.” 

Her eyes narrowed. She was almost impressed by his ability to deflect when one of his soldiers was currently salivating at the possibility of harming her. “Is that how Greengrass taught you to act? You’re such a politician,” she drawled. “Maybe you should pass that lesson along to Mr. Rookwood here.”

“I don’t know what you’re insinuating.”

“I bet you don’t,” she said, turning away from him in order to stare straight ahead. 

They stood in silence as the lift jerked to another floor. She felt Rookwood’s eyes on her the entire time, suffocating her. Hermione wanted to reach for her wand, but she feared any sudden movement would set off something she couldn’t handle alone. 

She wondered if that was how Hughman had felt. 

The tension in the lift could be cut with a knife. The styrofoam cup was almost completely crushed in between her fingers, and she heard Robards drumming his fingers against his thigh next to her. When the lift opened and closed once again without anyone getting in, he broke the silence. 

“I like you, Miss Granger,” he said. She almost laughed, but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of reacting. “I don’t have anything against mudbloods, you see. And you’re certainly one of the finest. You’ve always been, but particularly in the past few months. Your fight has been admirable.”

She clenched her jaw and remained in silence. Rookwood let out an ugly peal of laughter. 

“Yes, you’ve put up a good fight. But I’d drop it while you have the chance, if I were you. Take your wizard -- Mr. Malfoy, if I’m not mistaken -- and leave Britain,” he said pleasantly. “Just a piece of friendly advice, since you’re so close to Harry and I’ve got a special place in my heart for him.”

Hermione’s head snapped toward him. “Is that a threat?”

“Not at all, Miss Granger,” he said, smiling almost affectionately. “I just want to let you know that the people you’re messing with aren’t as nice as I am.”

“Maybe you should’ve given that same warning to Hughman before you had him killed,” she said in a tight voice. “It’s a matter of time before you pay for what you’ve done. All of you.”

In a flash, Rookwood pinned her against the lift. Robards wasn’t quick enough to stop him, or perhaps he didn’t try, because as fast as Hermione reached for her wand, Rookwood was reaching for his. 

“I hope I’m greatly mistaken about what’s happening here,” said a commanding voice. Rookwood jerked away from her, and Hermione turned towards the lift doors with an almost dazed expression.

Hestia Jones was standing at the entrance to Basement Level 2. Her hair was pulled into a high ponytail, and her sharp expression left no room to doubt her anger. She stepped into the lift, sidestepping the coffee cup that had tumbled into the ground as she stood beside Hermione. “Did I just see Mr. Rookwood attempt to attack Hermione Granger while the candidate for Minister stood by and watched?” 

“Are you sure you haven’t had anything to drink, sweetheart?” said Robards smoothly. Hermione shook her head with astonishment. Rookwood had returned to the other side of the lift, but his clenched jaw betrayed how easy he could be spurred into action. 

Hestia let out a dry laugh. “I’ll remind you that I’m still a Wizengamot Judge. And I won’t tolerate this sort of display in my presence.”

“Well, I’m sure the press will find it very convenient if you and your most loyal acolyte claim that she was attacked by your opponent just a couple of weeks before the election, in a lift, far from where anyone could see? That reeks of desperation, don’t you think?”

“If I catch you anywhere near Miss Granger again, the last thing you’ll have to worry about is what I will tell the public,” said Hestia with eyes that cut steel. “As an officer of the court, it’s my responsibility to hold you to the law. I don’t usually like to kick wolves when they’re already down, but I’ll make an exception for you.”

“Threatening an opponent? That’s not exactly how the public would expect a Wizengamot judge, much less the Minister of Magic, to behave.” He clicked his tongue. Behind him, Rookwood let out a mocking laugh. 

“It’s far from a threat, Gawain,” she said, narrowing her eyes. She leaned closer to him. “A good Minister makes a promise and keeps it.”

When the lift arrived at the atrium, Robards was the first to disappear into the crowd, Rookwood shooting Hermione one last sneer before rushing after him. 

Hestia turned to Hermione as they slowly stepped out of the lift. “Are you okay?” she asked. “They’re the dirtiest bastards I’ve ever seen. If you want to press charges--”

“That won’t be necessary,” interrupted Hermione. “He’s right. It’ll come off as desperate to the media, and it’s our word against theirs. Besides, I’m not scared of Rookwood.”

“Hermione--”

“Listen,” she continued, glancing around the atrium until she found the small cluster of reporters. Hermione lowered her voice before saying, “When the DMLE start their investigation on Hughman’s death, they’ll probably look into Rookwood. I don’t know what they’ll find, but I can guess. Until then, I’ll be fine on my own.”

Hestia looked like she wanted to protest, but she was distracted by the crowd. “Is someone holding a press conference?” 

“Yes,” she replied offhandedly, “Harry should be getting here any second now.” She blinked away the blur in her eyes and turned to Hestia. “Do you really think you’ll win?”

“I don’t know,” she replied honestly. “But Robards doesn’t need to know that.” She stopped a few feet behind the reporters. “Tell Harry to assign an Auror to watch you.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Did you hear him inside that lift? And did you see that other lunatic? He looked like he could smell your blood.”

“He’s bluffing,” insisted Hermione. Hestia didn’t know the circumstances of Hughman’s death. She didn’t know that Daphne and Draco had seen Douglass’s face twitch nervously when confronted with it. She hadn’t heard the defensiveness in Rookwood’s voice just then, and she certainly didn’t know that the forged suicide letter had been burnt. But that knowledge informed Hermione’s tone. “I’m a thorn in their side, but they won’t risk anything against me. It’d be like pointing a flashing sign over their heads.”

“Maybe if the Wizengamot were willing to investigate,” sighed Hestia. “I’ve been trying, but everything I do is seen as a campaign strategy. They don’t have anything to lose.”

Hermione hummed under her breath and scanned the atrium, her chest filling with relief when she saw the group exit the lift. It was the most unlikely picture she’d ever seen, and as the reporters began to snap their cameras, she was sure that the entire Wizarding World would soon agree.

Harry Potter was sharply dressed and walking towards the reporters. On each side of him were Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy. 

Ginny was just a step behind them, her face void of the irritation that had marred it earlier. She had an easy smile and a confident air about her as she strolled after the group.

“We’re doing something about that,” said Hermione, intertwining her fingers through Draco’s the second he stopped beside her. 

Hestia didn’t hide her surprise as she looked at them, but she didn’t voice it, choosing to greet Ginny instead. Pansy stood behind Harry while he faced the crowd, ready to step in if necessary.

“Today, I’m doing something I never thought I’d have to do,” he said, his voice booming across the room as silence fell in the atrium. Ministry employees returning from their lunches began to gather around them, faces displaying a mixture of confusion and curiosity. “Today, I’m defying an institution that should have the best interests of the Wizarding World at heart, but doesn’t. Time and time again, the Wizengamot has refused to listen to me.” he paused in a timely manner, letting the words sink in. “I’ve dedicated most of my life to the Wizarding World. I plan to continue doing so, and because of my strong conviction that the Wizengamot cannot fulfill its duties, I’m launching an investigation into the embezzlement of the Ministry funds and the suspicious events surrounding the death of Bart Hughman, former director of the Mental Rehabilitation Center.”

When he paused to take a breath, reporters crushed around him. It was impossible to make out the questions as they shouted over one another, and as if she’d done it for years, Pansy calmly stepped forward and raised her hands. Her cold stare made them fall into obedient silence. “Mr. Potter isn’t finished,” she said flatly. “Please hold your questions until the end.”

Harry shot her a thankful smile and stepped forward again. “I have no doubt that the Wizengamot will try to stop me. That’s why I need _your_ help. The help of every witch and wizard in Britain. I need you to protest and I need you to stay vigilant.” He ran his eyes over the room. They fell on Hestia. The reporters whirled in the same direction, their cameras capturing the moment Harry tipped his head towards her, and she nodded back. “And more than anything, in January, I need you to _vote._ ”

_

It was baffling how quickly the Wizengamot could act when they were backed into a corner. 

Before the last reporter had left the Ministry, they’d already issued an emergency press release in the _Daily Prophet._ A copy of the statement was read on all the radio programs broadcast that day. They nullified Harry’s investigation before he had stepped back into his office; assets were frozen, and each and every Auror had received formal owl notice announcing they’d be immediately put on unpaid administrative leave if they disregarded the Wizengamot’s order. 

They didn’t need to spell it out. The Aurors understood that their jobs wouldn’t be waiting for them by the end of it. The protest that broke out that night had been the only reason the Wizengamot hadn’t put Harry on probation for publicly defying them.

Hermione and her friends had retreated to their own houses, too exhausted to do anything about it just yet. She didn’t tell Draco why she strengthened all of the wards in the flat and why she barely slept a wink that night, her wand hidden beneath her pillow as he softly snored by her side. 

They were sitting on so much proof that Robards’ corruption should be an open and shut case. But Hermione knew it wouldn’t come to much if they couldn’t make a crack in the Wizengamot. With greater numbers and strategy, the wizarding population could scream and shout and demand action, and perhaps time would allow them to reap the benefits --

But the clock was ticking, and as they approached the end of the year, election looming large on the horizon, Hermione couldn’t help but feel that their efforts might just have been wasted. 

And if Robards won, something as small as a suggestive question could be cause for a Dementor’s kiss. 

Draco told his mother a heavily modified version of those events with an eagerness Hermione had never seen him show. His efforts to fill the awkward silence were appreciated, but not enough to lessen the discomfort that seemed to seep from Narcissa’s body. She and Hermione did their best not to look each other in the eyes. 

Under the table, his hand was pressed firmly against her thigh, his thumb moving in circular motions that seemed more comforting to him than her. Hermione sighed and forced a smile as elves moved around piling food on already-full plates, seemingly immune to the painful awkwardness surrounding the diners. 

She’d watched Minzy hurry after her elders with her usual clumsiness, smiling brightly at Hermione and Draco and bowing her head whenever Narcissa’s cold gaze landed on her. 

“That’s fascinating,” said Narcissa at last, sounding almost bored. “Sounds stressful, too.”

Hermione swallowed a mouthful of wine and arched a brow. “That’s an understatement.” 

“We’ll work it out, though,” said Draco, smiling at Hermione reassuringly. The silence returned, and before it could grow again, he said, “I like your new place, mother.”

“Thank you. I find it quite lovely myself,” she said, looking around with something akin to pride. Her house was beautiful -- not as large at the Malfoy Manor by any means, but way too big for a single woman. Unlike her former house, the walls were painted cream and white with soft splashes of green. The furniture exuded femininity and velvety poshness. “I’m not done with it yet, of course. It’s overcrowded at the moment, as you can imagine.”

Hermione glanced at Draco’s face and blurted out, “We’re not taking Minzy.”

Narcissa lowered her glass of champagne and frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

“It’s just that,” said Draco, his voice sounding surprisingly steady. “She’d be bored with us. Our flat is small and we can take care of ourselves just fine.”

“That’s ludicrous,” said Narcissa. “You don’t know how to take care of yourself without help.”

“He’s been taking care of himself for months,” said Hermione.

“I haven’t asked _you_ ,” snapped Narcissa. Hermione inhaled sharply. 

“Mother, don’t start,” said Draco in a tight voice. “Hermione’s right, and I’m not going to change my mind. We’re not taking Minzy with us.”

“Do you expect her to stay with me, Draco? Because that’s not going to happen. And if you think you’re going to free her, you’ve got another thing--”

“We thought about it, actually,” he interrupted. “But I talked to Minzy on our way in, and she doesn’t like that idea. Instead, we’re giving her a home with someone we trust.”

“Who?”

Hermione took another sip of her wine. “Theo Nott.”

Narcissa barely spared Hermione a glance. “I really don’t like this,” she muttered, then her face lit up. “I have an idea. What if you come to live with me? We would have a reason to keep Minzy then, since there’d be enough to keep all of the elves busy.”

Draco shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sure you don’t want Granger and me to live with you.”

“Of course not,” nodded Narcissa, almost innocently. Hermione narrowed her eyes. “ _You_ could come live with me, my son, and leave your flat to _her_. I’m sure she’s living quite comfortably, especially since she isn’t paying any rent. You being there or not wouldn’t exactly make much of a difference to her, would it?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Mother,” snapped Draco. “That’s uncalled for.”

Hermione shut her eyes and released a deep breath. 

More than anything, she was confused -- Narcissa had sounded sincere enough in her letter, and while Hermione hadn’t expected them to like each other, she’d hoped that after everything they respected what the other meant in Draco’s life.

“Maybe I should leave--” she started.

“No,” he said to her, before turning to his mother and saying, “She’s not leaving my side,” She felt his grip tighten on her knee and he gave her a small smile. “Mother, I’m not going to come here again if you can’t show us respect. We’ve talked about this, so I’m confused as to what you think has changed.”

“Draco, that’s not necessary,” tried Hermione.

“I don’t think I’ve been disrespectful,” said Narcissa, her voice softening just a smidge. 

“You’ve been rude and spiteful,” he said calmly. “Hermione is a permanent part of my life. If you want to be in it, your only option is to deal with that. I’m trying to give you a chance, but if you can’t, then we simply can’t come back here.”

Hermione’s heart felt too big -- too damn big to fit her chest, and she had to physically restrain herself from pulling him into a kiss. She was sure everything she felt was shining across her face.

She had stopped doubting Draco in what felt like forever ago--

But she had been choking on her loneliness since her parents had disappeared from her life. She hadn’t let herself acknowledge how hungry she’d been for a family until she found it. 

“Well,” said Narcissa, and not even her long-suffering sigh could take away from the love and affection consuming Hermione. “If that’s the way it is.”

“It is,” said Draco, not taking his eyes off Hermione. 

“Well,” said Narcissa. “ I guess we will have to get to know each other. Right, Miss Granger?”

Hermione turned to his mother, new confidence surging inside her. 

Her eyes didn’t promise much -- there was no illusion they’d be friends. But the more she looked at Narcissa’s immaculate features, the more Hermione realized the one thing they had in common would be enough to smooth their relationship into a tolerance that would hold.

It would hold because Hermione would make it so. 

She loved Draco too much for it to not. 

_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for posting this a few days late! We needed extra time to polish this chapter to its final form, and I really hope it's worth the wait. I wanted to make you a little something for this chapter, so this is how I imagine Narcissa's final play went: [Witch Weekly interview](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1hgCgH9Pt-Nf-pda2sjW5T_XSyqqccvUl/view?usp=sharing) :)
> 
> The next chapter will be the last! I just sent it to my amazing beta for editing, so I won't set an exact date for posting, just know it'll be as soon as possible and any information will be posted on my tumblr [@masterofinfinities](http://masterofinfinities.tumblr.com/), where I'm also always open to chat :)
> 
> We've recently hit 500 kudos too, that's really exciting! Thank you guys for this and for reading. I'm super excited to hear your thoughts!


	40. The Light Passing Through

“Sunlight pouring across your skin, your shadow flat on the wall. **The dawn was breaking the bones of your heart like twigs.** You had not expected this, the bedroom gone white, the astronomical light pummeling you in a stream of fists. You raised your hand to your face as if to hide it, the pink fingers gone gold as the light streamed straight to the bone, as if you were the small room closed in glass with every speck of dust illuminated. **The light is no mystery. The mystery is that there is something to keep the light from passing through.** ” Visible World, Richard Siken

* * *

“Don’t peek!” barked Draco. 

He knew she would roll her eyes if she could, but the bite in her tone was enough to drive her point across. “Pray tell, my love, how would I do that while blindfolded?” 

“If anyone could find a way, it'd be you,” he muttered from the corner of his mouth. Granger’s grip in his hand tightened for a second, and he let out a low hiss. “Must I remind you I could take your wand and leave you right here, in a place you don’t know?”

“Do you want to try your chances?” 

Draco let out a loud laugh, and in spite of herself, Granger giggled. “Just a couple more minutes and we’ll be there.”

“We must look ridiculous,” she mumbled. Draco glanced around, being careful to avoid tripping her, which would guarantee his demise. “You’re setting me up to make a fool of myself in public, aren’t you? I feel snow under my boots, and if I slip--”

“We’re the only people here. Calm down, Granger, will you?” he chuckled. He hesitated when they approached the gates, but as he nudged Granger forward, the wards lifted long enough to allow them to slide past. He smiled with relief -- the old wench had kept her word. 

In the wintery grey sky, a majestic owl flew overhead, its hoot loud enough to startle an already on-edge Granger, who jumped closer to him and exclaimed, “What was that?” He laughed despite his attempt to stifle it. “Don’t tease me, wanker. When will this be over?”

“Just a few more minutes.”

“I swear to Merlin--”

He bent his head to press a kiss to Granger’s lips. It shut her up long enough for him to pull her all the way to their final destination. 

When they halted, Draco took a moment to adjust Granger’s wool hat over her curls. He kissed her wrinkled nose before using his wand to vanish the blindfold covering her face. 

Her eyelids were tightly squeezed together, and he stood and watched her, his heart beating wildly inside of his chest. The usual flutter in his stomach surged full force, and when he gripped her other hand in his and her eyes fluttered open -- he felt his throat close.

They could’ve been anywhere for all the attention Granger paid to their surroundings. Her gaze solely on him, and Draco--

He couldn’t be blamed for what he said next. 

“Let’s get married.”

At first, Granger didn’t react. She looked at him with the same, familiar expression: affectionate, albeit confused. But slowly, he watched astonishment rise in her face, then, after a long moment, amusement. “Was there even a question in there?” He lifted his shoulders in a shrug, and she rolled her eyes. 

He scowled. “I can feel your excitement.”

“Because your proposal was more of an order than a request,” she said flatly. His face fell further. Then she cracked a large smile, and said in a poorly-executed imitation of him, “Calm down, Malfoy, will you?” 

In a flash, Draco drew her to him. He swallowed her surprised gasp with his lips, and Granger’s arms wrapped around his waist as she melted into his body. 

He didn’t know how long they stood there, in the bitter cold, snow coating their jackets and hats in crystal white. He didn’t feel anything but a blazing warmth lighting him up from the inside out. 

At last, the spell was broken when someone loudly cleared their throat, and they sprung apart with flushed faces and small smiles. 

“Merlin,” exclaimed Granger as she spun around, her gaze landing on the stern face of her former mentor. “We’re at Hogwarts!”

“Did you just realize that, Miss Granger?” said Minerva. While her face was blank, there was a smile in her voice. It faltered slightly when she turned to Draco, but there was still a semblance of kindness in it. “Pleasure to see you, Mr. Malfoy. I was quite surprised by your letter. Especially when you mentioned who you’d be bringing.”

Granger faced him with a frown. He shrugged. “Merry Christmas? Thought we’d pop in for a visit to your favorite place in the world. As boring as it is.” 

She shook her head before turning to Minerva. “Merry Christmas, Headmistress. I’m surprised by this as well, but I’m happy to see you after so long.”

After that, they began walking through the castle, Granger talking Minerva’s ear off while the older witch offered a fond quip when given the chance. 

Hogwarts was always strangely vacant during the holidays. Draco’s eyes lingered over spots that had once been familiar but were now dream-like visions of the past. He hadn’t visited the castle since the Final Battle, and had never planned to do so. 

On the rare occasions returning had crossed his mind, he’d decided he’d feel too uncomfortable. His time at the school was such a distant memory, it felt like an entirely different person had wreaked havoc in those hallways. 

His life as a Slytherin hadn’t been solely about torturing Gryffindors and looking for ways to carry out his father’s plans, even if felt so, more often than not -- 

_No_ , it had also been about learning, laughter, and mischief. He’d met his very first loves and began friendships that still carried him through. And as he ambled after the witches, Draco didn’t feel uncomfortable, or full of regrets -- he felt only a strange bout of nostalgia. He had forgotten about all of that. 

He couldn’t say he missed Hogwarts. But he didn’t hate the thought of it, either. 

And as his gaze lingered on Granger, her curls bouncing wildly despite most of it being trapped under her colorful monstrosity of a hat, he felt thankful for Hogwarts, too. 

Draco caught up with them when they stepped into the Great Hall. Minerva had stopped to greet a few students gathering at the end of a long table, a boy and a girl bent over a game of Wizarding chess while a small crowd cheered around them. When they recognized Granger, they hurriedly got out of their seats and stood at attention. 

“My mum said you’re airing all the dirt in the Ministry,” said a young wizard, who couldn’t be older than thirteen. He stared at Granger with a dazed look of awe. “She’s been going to the protests, too! She told me so!”

“Oh, that’s great,” said Granger, sounding embarrassed. Draco bit back a laugh as he lingered a feet behind her. “Say thank you to your mum for me.”

“My dad says you’re just trying to stir up problems where there aren’t any,” piped up a small witch next to him, trying and failing to keep her bright pink nose from running on the Ravenclaw scarf she tightened around her neck. Draco turned to her with narrowed eyes, and she balked, rushing to add, “But I don’t believe him, of course. I’m my own person.”

“Hey, could you get me Harry Potter and Ron Weasley to sign my Chocolate Frog cards? I’ve got a collection,” asked another student, and before Draco could snap at the brat to _leave her alone_ , Minerva stepped in. 

“Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley aren’t here, Anthony! Besides, I have matters to attend with these two,” she said in a stern voice. The kid pouted before lowering his eyes. “Don’t get in too much trouble, you hear me? And don’t bug the elves!”

“Yes, Headmistress,” they said in a chorus, bowing their heads apologetically before scurrying back to their game. 

Granger waved them a shy hello, but Draco didn’t spare them another glance as Minerva guided them to the Gryffindor table. Her eyes tracked him with sharp intensity as they sat down at the bench opposite hers, and he fought the urge to sneer. 

When the Headmistress didn’t avert her eyes, he hissed, “I’m surrounded by too many sodding Gryffindors to be bothered by a dining table,” Granger’s elbow softly met his ribs, and he added sardonically, “Not that you’re judging me.”

“Well, I must confess I’m still processing this,” said Minerva, gesturing to them. “I don’t keep up with the gossip rags, you see, but students chatter and you’re bound to pick up a thing or two. If I’m not mistaken, you were engaged to one of the Greengrass girls not long ago?”

Draco smiled tightly. “Just a rumor,” he said. “You know how people are. A wizard and a witch can’t be friends these days without them twisting into something else.”

“Really?” said Minerva, sounding nonplussed. 

“Padma does it all the time with Ron and me,” offered Granger. A tray of jaffa cakes and a jar of juice suddenly popped on the table, and she used the moment to swiftly change the subject. “Oh, this pumpkin juice is my absolute favorite,” she said, pouring herself a glass and taking a large gulp before popping a treat into her mouth. 

“You act like I don’t feed you,” he grumbled, handing her a napkin. 

Minerva let out a contemplative sound, and when Draco turned to her, she was watching them with a wrinkled forehead. “When I got Mr. Malfoy's letter, I didn’t know what to expect. But I’m glad you’re here, Miss Granger. From what I’ve heard, things are complicated for you and Mr. Potter. As they often are.”

Granger dropped a half-eaten jaffa cake on the table before exhaling softly. “Is the war really over, Headmistress?”

“I’d like to think so,” muttered Minerva. “What I’ve learned over the years is that the results aren’t what truly matters. What matters is whether we learn the lessons it taught us.”

“What if we didn’t learn anything at all?” murmured Granger, seemingly more to herself than anyone else. “I don’t think I knew how to navigate this world after the war. Coming back to Hogwarts when I did, I thought I’d be sure what path I needed to follow.”

“These things rarely come to us when we expect them to, Miss Granger.”

She gave Minerva a small smile before glancing at Draco. He couldn’t quite decipher the look in her eyes, but the way she moved now -- he hadn’t seen her so confident since they were students glaring at each other in this same room. 

To Granger, he realized, Hogwarts was a homecoming he’d never be able to understand.

“But I think I know now,” she said, turning to Minerva again. “I’m just not sure how to take everyone else along with me. With us.”

“Some might think heroes only matter during battles, Miss Granger. But what they do in the aftermath is what ends up changing the world.” Something like pride flashed over the Headmistress’s face. “It’s not your responsibility to take everyone else along with you. You can show them the way, but it’s up to them whether they’ll follow along.”

Hermione looked down at her hands, wringing them over the table. “But even the people who fought by our side are becoming tainted by power the closer they get to it. I’m afraid--” She cleared her throat. “Are we cutting off the hydra’s head only for more to grow in its place? I know who I’m fighting against _now_. But corruption isn’t a single person. It could touch anyone. It could touch _me._ ”

Minerva covered Hermione’s hands with hers. “People don’t recognize corruption in themselves, Hermione,” she said, looking into her former student’s eyes. “They fall into its traps, and before they realize, they’re drowning in it. But I don’t think you’re vulnerable to corruption. Not when you hold yourself to the same standards you hold everyone else. That’s what will keep you grounded.”

Hermione exhaled sharply. “You always believed in me.”

“Of course. You and every single one of my students. We lost some of them along the way, but the wheel of life is always turning, Hermione,” she said. “And you seem to have found yourself a group of allies to help you along in your journey. But I will say this--”

“Yes?”

“Sometimes, your greatest allies are those you thought you’d lost in the rubble.”

Her cryptic words seemed to resonate with Granger, whose face scrunched up in deep thought. A moment passed, but before long, she asked, “But how do I pull them out?”

“They have to do it themselves, but you can give them a little nudge. With some, you show them what they _could_ have,” said Minerva, her eyes darting to Draco. “And for others, you show them what they lost.”

_

Hermione and Draco strolled towards the Great Lake. A map of their footsteps carved their path in the snow, and they pulled their heavy coats tighter against their bodies as they shuffled beside each other, hands tangling in their search for warmth. 

“When I envisioned this visit, I thought we’d sneak into Gryffindor Tower and fulfill one of my teenage fantasies,” he grumbled under his breath. “I didn’t plan on freezing my arse off to take a corny stroll around this ugly lake.”

“You become more insufferable by the day,” said Granger dryly. “Wholly unsuitable for someone who fancies himself, my future husband,” 

He scoffed. “ _Please,_ knowing your history, insufferable is right up your alley.”

“Speaking of history,” she said, gazing at him with mischievous eyes. “In Fourth Year, Viktor Krum took me here to give me my first kiss.”

“Oh, how absolutely unoriginal,” he said. “My first kiss was both romantic and thrilling, as it should be. It was my second year. We snogged on the train before parting ways for the summer.”

“You and Pansy?”

Draco paused. “It was actually Daphne,” At that, Granger’s lips curled into a grimace. “You know she fancies witches, don’t you?”

She shook her head. “I know, whatever, I’m still recovering from the last time I saw you two together. Whatever,” she huffed, more to herself than Draco. “Kiss me now.”

“When you ask so nicely.”

Granger gave him a look. “We can recreate my kiss now and yours another time. Come on.”

“Why would I want to recreate your ridiculous first kiss with Krum? Frankly, Granger--” Before he could finish the sentence, Granger rose on her tiptoes and planted a firm kiss on his lips. His hands automatically went to her waist, keeping her close, and when his lips parted to let her in, she wrapped her tongue on his, drawing him in deeper. “Did you kiss him like this the _first_ time?” he muttered against her mouth.

“Why, of course. Like everything, I was a natural,” said Granger, grinning as she wrapped her arms around his neck. She rubbed her cold nose against his and he shivered. “I know you brought me here to give me clarity. It worked, so thank you. It was a good Christmas present.”

He kissed her cheek. “You know what to do now?”

“I do,” muttered Hermione. She turned in his arms, her back pressed against his chest as he tucked his chin on her shoulder. “I know exactly what I have to do.” 

_

At last, the Wizarding world’s most anticipated wedding had arrived. The reception was held in a barn-inspired ballroom that ran farther than the eye could see. Its wooden columns were wrapped in white roses and fairy lights hung over the ceiling in a canopy, like stars. A seemingly impossible variety of pink flowers and fabrics draped the many tables and chairs in attendance; some of the flowers had found their way into the guests’ updos and buttonholes. Decorated in zinnias and primroses, the guests packed every inch of space, tipping glasses of champagne at the happy couple as they spun around the room, eyes for nothing but each other. 

It was a beautiful dream that matched the ceremony held just a few hours back.

But, despite being heart-warmed and happy for her friends, it didn’t stop Hermione from shivering in her sleeveless maid-of-honor dress. The Warming Spell was holding poorly against the bitter cold. And Ginny had somehow developed a sixth sense for any member of the wedding party who dared hide their inappropriate attire, her head snapping from across the room and eyes laser focusing on Hermione every time she tried to reach for her coat. 

“It’s so much like Potter to have a wedding on the tails of a religious holiday,” muttered Theo. He was sitting across from Hermione and Draco at their round corner table. His bright pink tie matched his recently dyed hair -- an ode to the wedding’s color palette -- and he was a smidge too entertained by everything surrounding him. “Blasphemy isn’t above them, apparently.”

“I don’t even know why he invited you,” grumbled Hermione. “You’ve spoken what? Twice?” 

Pansy looked up from her perfectly manicured nails and drawled. “Because he overheard Potter talking about it with me and invited himself.”

“Don’t act like you weren’t all last-minute additions to the guest list,” he smirked. “Pansy’s his press secretary, so she’s excusable, but Daphne has even less reason to be here than I do. The group of us are certainly going to make the papers.”

“Ginny and I have been chatting, you git, she didn’t care about my father,” snapped Daphne. “Meanwhile, Hermione had to vouch for you to get in.” 

“Only because it slipped Potter’s mind to add my name in the list. It was short notice.”

“You’re shameless,” said Hermione. 

“‘I’ll salute to that,” smirked Theo, tipping his champagne glass towards her. 

She subtly flipped him the bird. His booming laugh rose above the din, making heads snap in their direction. Startled expressions turned into increasingly familiar glares, and Hermione let out a heavy sigh. _Like we need to make noise to get gratuitous attention_ , she thought grumpily. 

It hadn’t taken her more than a couple seconds that afternoon to realize Ginny and Harry hadn’t told their old friends about their new acquaintances, nor about her relationship with Draco. And perhaps even worse, they hadn’t thought to mention it to any member of the Weasley clan. 

From her spot by the altar, she’d seen the looks thrown in the Slytherins’ direction. While people were polite enough to feign disinterest as Harry and Ginny exchanged their binding vows, the curious whispers began as soon the newlyweds had left for the party. 

They only intensified when Hermione walked into the barn with her fingers tightly wrapped around Draco’s elbow, their group of friends just a couple of feet behind them. He moved with the deliberate confidence she’d come to love, and while she wasn’t as fond of the condescending smirk that was more bravado than arrogance, she was still charmed by it. 

Others were not. 

And Theo’s boisterous laughter and loud comments about everything in sight weren’t exactly helping.

Hermione had prepared herself for an inevitable confrontation between her and Molly Weasley, undoubtedly dragging Ron by his ear, but the woman had chosen to avoid her like she’d acquired a contagious disease. Thoughts of mending the broken fences between her and the Weasleys vanished when she saw Molly’s first side-long glance. 

Every time she caught a glimpse of her, Draco squeezed her hand tightly. As if he knew.

“This is entertaining, but I want to get a look at this joint,” said Theo, raising from his chair. Hermione frowned when he lingered, shooting her a pointed look. “You’re more familiar with the venue than me, Granger.”

“It’s one large room,” she retorted. “Not even you could get lost here.”

He leaned forward, and Hermione glanced around the table, but her friends were too used to Theo’s antics to feign interest. “We won’t get lost, but we might find something useful along the way, don’t you think?”

Hermione shot Draco a sidelong glance, but he only shrugged. She sighed and turned to Theo again -- 

There was something in his eyes. She hesitated, and Theo tipped his head subtly towards a figure that stomped past their table too quickly for Hermione to get more than a fleeting look -- 

But that was all she needed to recognize her. She knew that deep brown hair and power-walk too well -- those purposeful strides that made it clear that she wasn’t here for pleasure, but business. 

So Hermione gave Theo a nod and followed after him. 

_

“We’re not inviting these people to our wedding,” muttered Draco, sneaking a glance around the busy dance floor as he tugged Hermione closer to him. “Not one of them.”

“I don’t want a wedding,” said Hermione, wrapping her arms around his neck as they moved to the soft rhythm of a piano ballad. Her eyes darted around the room, searching, before falling on Draco’s face again. “Can you imagine me as a bride? My anxiety couldn’t handle it, and you’re the least groom-like pureblood wizard I’ve ever met. Besides, too many galleons and too much attention. Who cares?”

Draco barely managed to stifle a laugh. “You’ve given it a lot of thought considering you haven’t said yes to my proposal. I’ve been giving you time, but it’s been ages.”

“It was yesterday,” she said flatly. 

He shrugged. “Let’s elope instead.”

“You’re not going to try to upstage Harry?”

“Please, look at my suit then look at his. I don’t need to try,” he muttered, and Hermione snorted loudly before tugging at the soft strands of hair at the back of his neck. For a moment, she forgot what she was supposed to be looking for. All too soon, their borrowed peace was disturbed by shouts erupting from the bar, followed by echoes of smashed glasses and what sounded like someone falling off a chair. “I’ve never seen a more graceless group of people.”

“But we finally got our dance,” she said appeasingly, tilting her head up to meet his gaze. Draco’s face softened, and his grey eyes shined brightly in the dark. “Who would’ve thought?”

He bent his head closer to hers, but before their lips met, someone tapped her sharply in the shoulder. “Not that I’m sick of watching your public displays of affection or anything, but we’ve got shite to do,” said Theo in a business-like tone. 

“You’re the bane of my existence,” said Hermione, accepting the hand he offered. His eyes glimmered with mischief and purpose. Merlin damn her, she liked him. “We’ll be back soon, please don’t Stupefy anyone. I beg you,” she threw over her shoulder. 

“It’ll be a struggle but I’m sure I can manage,” Draco said dryly, already heading back to their table. Hermione and Theo began to walk in the opposite direction. 

She smiled apologetically to an enthusiastic Luna before dodging Percy Weasley, who was not so subtly glaring at them. “Are you sure she’s alone this time?”

“I’ve been watching her instead of getting sloshed, what do you think?” snarked Theo. They finally left the barn and stepped into a brightly light corridor that led to a powder room. When they stopped in front of the door, Hermione turned to him with a pointed look. “I’m coming too.” 

“It’s the ladies' room,” she protested. 

Theo only rolled his eyes before pushing the door open. Hermione cursed under her breath before following him inside. 

They found Padma standing in front of a mirror, waving her wand in practiced motions as she fixed her barely tousled hair. First, her gaze fell on Hermione, its indifference transforming into alarm when she noticed Theo's smirking face. Her wand slipped through her fingers and tumbled into the sink with a clinking sound before she hurriedly snatched it back. 

The walls seemed to squeeze around them and everything stilled. 

Then, in a split-second, Padma jerked forward. When nothing happened, she cursed, an frustrated sound ripping past her throat as the anti-apparition spells activated in response to her attempts. 

Her face paled, but before she could try to escape past them, Theo leaned forward.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he drawled. “Why so flighty?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, smoothing her expression into cool disdain. “What’s happening here?” She crossed her arms, her eyes darting between them. “My photographer will be looking for me, you know? This is a highly-publicized event.”

“We just want to chat,” said Hermione. She’d be taken aback by her reaction if it weren’t for the information Theo had told her quietly earlier that evening. “It won’t take long.”

Padma jutted her chin out, trying to make herself look confident. “Well, get on with it? I have a piece about you and Malfoy that I need to send to my editor tonight. I hope Harry won’t be mad when you steal the spotlight from his wedding. But what can you do? People are bound to be shocked when they find out our self-righteous activist is dating the wizard her enemy’s daughter was betrothed to. Who was also a Death-Eater on probation at the center she worked at.” Her words might have cut deeper if she’d kept the desperation out of her voice. “The story we could spin with that many coincidences.”

Hermione stared at her with a blank expression before saying, softly, “You’d do that to me?”

“It’s news, Hermione!” She cracked a nervous laugh, her eyes twitching between Theo and Hermione. “People want to be entertained! You keep giving me material and then trying to use the friendship card to make me out as a villain. This is about my career, not my feelings.”

Hermione raised her hands. “I get it. Your career first, friendships and ethics second, right? It’s not personal. I get it,” she said somberly. Padma’s expression faltered. “And that’s why I know you won’t take it personally when I go on the record about some business of yours. It’s public service, after all.” She flicked a piece of non-existent lint off her dress. 

“I don’t know what _he_ told you--”’

“He told me something interesting, alright,” interrupted Hermione. “You see, Theo has been bragging about his sources for forever. And I’ve just been dying to get it out of him. It was hard, but I finally convinced him to tell me tonight.”

Padma audibly gulped, and she turned to Theo with an accusatory look. “My tongue gets looser when I’m sloshed,” he grinned, voice steady. “I think Potter spiked my juice. You can blame him.”

“Can you imagine my surprise when I found out you’ve been supplying him, and anyone else with a fat vault, every exclusive piece of information the Prophet gets about the Ministry?”

“No one will believe you,” snapped Padma. “You think you’re the only intelligent person here, Hermione? Give me some credit. There are no receipts. It’s his word against mine. And he’s a former Death-Eater.”

“Do I need to prove it?” said Hermione. “I could just tell everyone. _The Serpent Wire_ doesn’t usually publish this sort of news, but I’m sure they’d make an exception. Isn’t that what you do? Spin whatever tales you want about people’s lives and watch them face the repercussions?”

“I know you, Hermione,” she said. “You wouldn’t hurt a friend like that.” 

“Didn’t you just accuse me of using the friendship card?” said Hermione, feigning confusion. “I’ve learned who my friends are, Padma. You’re not one of them. But don’t worry, I’m not going to do what you did to me.”

Padma’s smile turned triumphant, but before it could linger, Theo crossed the room and stood beside Hermione. “She doesn’t need to,” he said, slowly pulling an old Muggle recorder out of his suit’s pocket. “Granger told me you used one of those on her once?”

“Theo, I swear to Merlin--” screeched Padma. 

“It sparked an idea.”

“We had a _deal!_ ”

“You shouldn’t make deals with snakes.” He tapped a button on the recorder and placed it back in his pocket. “They always come back to bite you.”

Padma groaned, and for a moment, she glanced between Hermione and Theo, her face darkened by despair. Hermione felt a sudden rush of pity, and apprehension traveled down her spine --

There was a thin line between playing the game and political corruption. 

As she stared at the witch, she wondered at which point Padma had crossed it, and if she had ever regretted the path she’d chosen. 

If Padma even realized she’d given away a part of herself she’d never get back. 

Hermione wondered what made them different. They were both using the ends to excuse the means, but --

McGonagall’s words returned to her like anchors weighing her feet to the ground, and as Padma struggled against her emotions before succumbing to the inevitable, Hermione repeated to herself in a chant: _Hold yourself to the same standards you hold everyone else. Hold yourself to the same--_

“Fine,” spat Padma. “What do I have to do?”

_

Hermione gripped the arms of her chair, letting out a shaky breath as she heard the commotion increase. The roar of angry voices and loud footsteps echoed through the room until she was on the edge of her seat. 

They couldn’t see what was happening, but she could make a pretty good guess. 

The door to Harry’s office was ripped open. They shot up in their seats as Kingsley barged inside, his robes ruffled and chest heaving. When his gaze fell on them, his nostrils flared. 

“Of course _you’re_ the one behind this,” he spat, giving Hermione a look. He shook his head at Harry with disappointment.

Behind him, a flustered group of Ministry employees fought each other to step into the room, attempting to get a word in edgewise as they shouted over each other for the Minister’s attention. Hermione heard the voice of a small wizard with glasses soar over the crowd. “I assure you, Minister, we have absolutely _nothing_ to do with this.”

Kingsley turned to him with a glare. “Of that, I’ve no doubt. Now get your arses out of here,” he snarled, waiting for the wizard to take a quivering step backwards before shutting the door in his face. 

“Good afternoon, Minister,” tried Hermione. The smile on her face wasn’t anywhere close to convincing. A huge part of her wanted to yield under Kingsley’s authoritative gaze, but she forced herself to stand firmly. She hoped Harry was doing the same. 

“Oh, spare me,” he said, pulling out a chair. “I know you’re the reason I had to cut short a long-awaited New Years' vacation. I could have you thrown at Azkaban for this.”

“But you won’t,” said Harry, nudging Hermione to sit by Kingsley’s side before returning to his place behind the desk. “I don’t think it’d look good for you.”

“You know what doesn’t look good for me, Harry?” he narrowed his eyes. “The _Daily Prophet_ announcing, without my knowledge, that I’ve set up an urgent meeting with the Wizengamot about matters of electoral fraud and conspiracy against the government.”

Hermione gave him an innocent look. “Oh, when’s the meeting?”

“You know what I have on my plate right now, Miss Granger? I have to deal with overworked Aurors who were dragged from a holiday with their families to handle a furious crowd that’s outside demanding answers. No doubt the Aurors can thank their Head of bloody Department,” he growled. “Then I’ve got uppity Wizengamot judges dead-set on ruining my plans for a peaceful end of term, and now, I’m gearing up to sue the most powerful news outlet in Wizarding Britain!”

“Sounds like you’ve got a full plate,” said Harry. Kingsley reacted to his flippant tone with a string of incoherent curses. 

For as long as she’d known him, Kingsley had been one of the most even-tempered wizards she’d ever met. She’d seen him smooth over failed missions and calmly duel three wizards at once. But she’d never seen him lose his cool. 

“And on top of it all,” he spat. “I’ve got two of the biggest thorns in my side standing in front of me, daring to _snark_ at their Minister for Magic.”

As he stared her down with something akin to betrayal flashing in his eyes, Hermione had no doubt he intended to make good on his threat to throw her and Harry in an Azkaban cell if they didn’t plead their case. 

Fast. 

“You know better than all of us that the Wizengamot is corrupt,” said Hermione, watching Harry slide a set of folders across the desk. Kingsley began running his eyes over every piece of evidence Pansy had gathered. “You know that Robards and Douglass are behind everything that’s been going on, Minister. It’s why you brushed me off so strongly that evening at the ball, isn’t it?”

“That was ages ago, Hermione--”

“We fought side by side,” she cut him off. “When the war ended and you were elected, we _believed_ in you. And maybe I’m just naive and this is how politics work, but I know there’s something bloody wrong about sitting back and watching everything we fought for crumble into pieces.”

“You think I haven’t tried?” snapped Kingsley, slapping the folders down on the desk. “The Ministry is full to the brim with people rotten to the core. I was as idealistic as you when I began, Miss Granger. But then projects kept failing because people were working behind the scenes to undermine my authority. Any negotiation with businessmen or foreign governments that would benefit muggleborns or marginalized creatures would suddenly fall apart without a reasonable explanation. The Wizengamot threw me pity laws and made concessions to make it less obvious that this position is nothing more than a show,” he muttered. “This is how the Ministry of Magic has always worked, Hermione. To serve the purposes of powerful pureblood families and perpetuate this bloody system. We were foolish to think we had a chance.”

“But we can change it,” she insisted.

“Are you listening to me?” he said. “This little scam you’ve set up with the press to push me into a corner? It’s not going to do anything but put a target on all of our backs when they win the election and come to exact revenge.” 

“But that’s not going to happen if you do something,” urged Harry. “Out of all of us, you’re the one with the power to do it. Kingsley, for Merlin’s sake, how many of our friends have died for us to let this happen all over again?”

“Don’t go there,” he threatened. 

“We’re already there,” snapped Hermione, her remaining apprehension vanishing like smoke. “I’ll be frank with you, Minister. You’ve lost the respect of your friends and allies. You’ve lost the admiration of the Wizarding community, and you’ve lost _years_ of opportunities to do good while you were in office. So you can throw me and Harry at Azkaban for lying about the meeting, but you could also use it as a second chance.”

“There are two ways this could go,” said Harry. “You could back the Wizengamot into the same corner we backed you, with the proof that will guarantee Robards won’t be Minister and assurance that the Prophet will cover this story how it should.”

“Or?”

“We’ll print it in tomorrow’s paper,” said Hermione. “Everyone will have all the proof they need by tomorrow morning. It certainly won’t be enough to change the outcome of this election. But I know without a doubt,” paused Hermione, remembering what McGonagall had said to her at Hogwarts, “is that you’ll go down in history as the Minister who dishonored our fallen heroes by handing pureblood supremacists the Wizarding world without even bothering to fight.”

Harry spread his arms behind his back and gave them his most confident smirk. “Clock is ticking. What is it going to be?”

_

Hermione didn’t have many memories of the court hearings that took place after the war. And she didn’t trust the few she was able to fish out of a confusing sea of days and weeks that flowed into one another until she wasn’t able to pick them apart. 

Until not that long ago, she had been blinded by trauma. 

She’d talked and walked and existed, but there wasn’t much that slid past the numbness that cloaked over her soul.

Yet Hermione remembered, with stark accuracy, a singular feeling --

The chilling unease that set in when she realized that the future was in someone else’s hands. 

There was something maddening about having no control. 

But now she knew it wouldn’t keep her from fighting. 

_

Cormac McLaggen was the first to speak in their favor. 

He looked strangely austere in the Wizengamot’s standard scarlet robes, his blond curls crushed under his hat. Despite his somber costume, he sounded young, arrogant, and far too brazen for his own good. And he didn’t quiver under the heated glances thrown his way. 

“It’s our duty to uphold the interests of the Wizarding World,” he bellowed. “What part of this hasn’t registered with all of you? We have tangible proof that the accused are conspiring against this very institution.”

“There’s no tangible proof,” snapped Rowle with an ugly sneer. He stood up, pulling the crowd’s attention like puppet strings. “At best, we have circumstantial evidence that something untoward may have occurred. We have no idea where this evidence comes from, and now, without verifying it, you want to use it as leverage to interfere with the election? How absurd!”

Hermione saw more than a few heads nodding along with Rowle. 

Hestia Jones stood up, twisting around to face Rowle head-on. “This court’s guidelines were followed and an authentication spell was placed on each and every one of those letters. As the spell confirmed, the letters were written by Gawain Robards and Douglass Greengrass. Miss Pansy Parkinson was then interrogated about those letters under Veritaserum.” 

“Interrogated by who?” cackled Rowle. “By Aurors under Harry Potter’s command? The very same wizard who’s been undermining the Wizengamot’s authority for weeks now?”

“Are you really going to dismiss the accuracy of our authentication procedures, which have been perfected over _decades_ , just to push your conspiracy theories? Are we a fact-finding body or not?”

“Besides, Harry Potter is hardly germane to the discussion at hand,” said Kingsley, his voice cutting through their argument. He paced across the room, his hands clasped behind his back. He glanced at Hermione and Harry, who stood by the entrance of the courtroom. They knew that behind the doors, a mob of reporters was fighting for any indication of what was happening inside. “This is enough proof to launch an official investigation. This is indisputable, and the fact we are even arguing about this is ludicrous.”

“We have voted,” hissed Rowle. “The majority of the Wizengamot has decided this matter won’t be discussed beyond this room. You might be Minister for Magic, but we hold over fifty-five percent of these chairs, and as such, our word is final.”

“And how intriguing that those same fifty-five percent have close ties with the same criminals being accused of conspiracy and fraud,” said Hestia dryly, shooting Rowle a smirk over her shoulder. “It’s clear that you have a personal interest in this outcome, Judge Rowle. Don’t underestimate the people’s intelligence.”

“The people?” scoffed Rowle. “The people are well aware of _your_ personal and political interests, Judge Jones. It doesn’t change the Wizengamot’s decision.”

“And what message does this decision send to the citizens who have been protesting fairness and justice for months?” said McLaggen. “The press is making a mockery out of this institution. What message does _that_ send?”

“The message is clear,” said a wizard Hermione didn’t recognize. “The Wizengamot won’t be swayed by media ploys and who yells louder. Not even when that person is the Minister.”

Kingsley, who was still pacing in the center of the room, suddenly halted. He slowly turned towards the front of the room, craning his neck slightly to face the court. “You seem to forget, Mr. Gaunt, that this Minister is currently Chief Warlock of this court.” The room fell silent. As Hestia quickly sat in her chair, Rowle remained the only person directly facing the Minister. 

“That gives you no right--”

“You don’t tell me about my rights,” barked Kingsley. “This court has ruled over my authority for years, but I am still Minister for Magic, and will hold this position until another is legitimately elected to take over my place. And as Chief Warlock, I will not endure your mockery.”

“Do you think that pushing this matter is in your best interests, Minister?” challenged Rowle. Both wizards stared firmly into each other’s eyes. No wands were drawn, but Hermione felt like she was watching a duel all the same. “Must I remind you how many judges in this court oppose this investigation? Or how many Ministry employees will take offense at this senseless persecution of a candidate with a history of selflessly serving the Wizarding World?”

Kingsley tilted his head to the side. “It’s a good thing then, Judge Rowle, that I serve neither the judges in the Wizengamot nor your lackeys in the Ministry,” he said. “I serve the public of Wizarding Britain. The weight of my vote evens the scale, and it’ll not be dismissed.” 

As judges began to stand up and shout over each other, a wand slashed through the air, a burst of emerald light erupting from its tip and startling the room into silence. Heads jerked towards a wizard Hermione vaguely recognized from the Order. “We’re deadlocked,” he said firmly.

As tension hung over the room like storm clouds, judges on either side of the room stared down their fellow lawmakers with a mixture of discomfort and steadfast unwillingness to back down. They all wore the same uniform, but the divide couldn’t be clearer. 

On the left half of the stands, Rowle stood in the middle of a crowd of stern faces and jutted chins. On the right, a smaller group of younger wizards and witches matched their stubborn stances. Kingsley looked up at them all with a clenched jaw, and Hermione waited with bated breath, half expecting him to succumb under the pressure. 

Harry’s hand found hers, and they gripped at each other like a lifeline. 

Then, slowly, his usual confidence shrinking under the strain of the cold war raging in the room, McLaggen stood up on shaky feet. “Then, how about a compromise?”

_

Padma was the only reporter in the conference room.

She faced the Minister and Harry Potter with a stern expression on her face, her voice adopting a suggestive undertone every time she found a sore spot to press her thumb into. Her quill scribbled non-stop in the notepad floating by her side, and when her gaze darted to where Hermione, Hestia, and Pansy stood in the back of the room, her eyes shone with what could be described as a triumph.

“The bitch knows Zabini is taking her place in less than five minutes, right?” said Pansy, her voice laced with disgust she usually reserved for Hermione. 

“I might’ve led her to believe this was an exclusive interview,” Hermione said quietly. 

Pansy turned to her with an unreadable expression. Her lashes fluttered as she studied Hermione, then her lips twitched so faintly it might as well have been a mirage. “That wasn’t stupid of you.”

Hermione bit back down her snort, watching as Padma posed another question. “You made it very clear that Douglass Greengrass is already under arrest as the DMLE’s investigations are set to start. Then why isn’t Gawain Robards being investigated?”

Harry waited for Kingsley's nod before answering. “Robards _is_ being investigated. But our constitution simply didn’t foresee the scenario of a candidate for Minister facing criminal charges during a race. The Wizengamot made its stance clear on this matter, so under the law, we can’t nullify his candidacy. Now, I do believe the honorable thing to do would be for him to willingly withdraw from the race so as to not make a mockery of our judicial system, but that won’t happen.”

“Is that also your statement, Minister?”

“Mr. Potter and I are in agreement on this matter,” he said curtly.

“Now, let’s dumb this down for the masses, Mr. Potter. What does this mean in practical terms?”

Harry’s eyes narrowed at her words. Then he said, with bite, “The people are much smarter than you might think, Miss Patil. But simply put, Douglass Greengrass and Gawain Robards are being investigated for conspiracy, fraud, and embezzlement of Ministry funds. They’re also suspects in the homicide of Bart Hughman. We have warrants to search their estates, vaults, and anything else in their possession. I’m confident that my Aurors and I will find the proof to send them to Azkaban for a long time. These are facts that every single voter in Wizarding Britain should consider when they make their decision at the end of the month.”

Padma lifted a brow. “And if Robards wins, what do you think will happen?”

“I trust people. I have never stopped trusting people. And because of that, I have no question that we won’t have to worry about that,” said Harry, abruptly standing up. 

Padma’s quill halted, and she stood up as well, shaking their hands before making her way out of the conference room. She threw the witches an elated smile as she brushed past them. 

A minute after she disappeared down the hall, Blaise Zabini entered the room. He wore a turtleneck and a smirk, and his eyes lit up like he carried the entirety of the world’s secrets.

He planted two wet kisses on each of their cheeks before hurrying to take the seat Padma had vacated. “Gentlemen, shall we start?”

As they began the interview, Pansy begrudgingly muttered, “Isn’t it so last year that the wizards are getting all the spotlight while we stand in the back like we haven’t done the brunt of the work?”

“That will change soon,” said Hermione, glancing at Hestia. “Don’t worry about it.”

“How Gryffindor of you to be so hopeful,” muttered Pansy.

“In this world, having hope means nothing if you don’t have a strategic mind and knowledge on your side,” said Hestia, facing Hermione with a thoughtful expression. “You’ve got both of those. That’s exactly what I’m looking for in the role of my Chief of Staff.”

In an unusual display of surprise, Pansy let out a gasp. “Are you asking Granger--”

“I think it’s the perfect fit for her,” cut off Hestia. “What do you say, Hermione?”

Hermione averted her gaze for a moment, her eyes falling on Harry and Kingsley, who answered hard-hitting question after hard-hitting question while maintaining their poise. 

She watched them while on each side of her Pansy and Hestia burned holes into her head.

A huge part of her was flattered by the offer.

Another part wanted to laugh at the thought of it. 

Finally, she turned to Hestia. “I’m not a politician, Hestia. I have no interest in being one,” she muttered, watching the witch’s face fall with disappointment. “But I know someone who not only has those qualities, but is way better suited for the role than I am.”

Hestia’s face sparkled with poorly veiled interest. “Really?”

“It might be an unorthodox choice, but the best ones usually are.” She cleared her throat. “Have you met Theodore Nott?”

_

Hermione woke from sleep with the sensation of something fluttering down her face. 

At first, she shied away from it, but as her eyes eased open and the familiar feeling of a slow kiss registered, her thighs began to clench, pleasure swelling low in her stomach. She turned on her side, her gaze falling on Draco’s self-satisfied face.

“I don’t have time for this,” she grumbled. Her pressing closer to him contradicted her words. “Not today.”

“You’ve got plenty of time,” he said, his lips tracing a path from her ear to her neck. He nibbled at the soft spot in the column of her throat, and she couldn’t suppress a shudder. She felt his smirk grow against her skin, and in a split second, he drew away from her. “You know what? Maybe we _don’t_ have time.”

“Oh, shut up, Malfoy,” she snapped, her hand flying to the nape of his neck and pulling his mouth towards hers. Her tongue wrapped against his as she breathed him in, any coherent thought fleeing her mind. 

Worries and anxiety left her body as his fingers skimmed down her back towards the swell of her arse. She gasped as he squeezed a buttock and roughly pulled her closer. 

Swiftly, Draco moved over her, her back relaxing against their too-expensive sheets. He pulled at her earlobe with his teeth, his deft fingers playing her center, thumb rubbing over her nub. She gasped and whimpered and jerked underneath him, and pleasure rose inside of her in crescendo. 

Words left his mouth in an unstoppable string -- sweet nothings and dirty everythings that she half-heard but tugged at something deeper inside of her, making the sensation sharper when their bodies joined, her weak spots being played like the soft keys of a piano. 

He thrust into her and whispered, she quivered around his length and cried out. When the feeling ebbed slowly, in soft tremors that went for minutes on end, there was nothing left but bliss.

Then, there was panic. 

“We really didn’t have time for this,” screeched Hermione, her mind clearing enough to make her jump out of the bed. “Why do you always do this?”

Draco watched her hurry around the room, his limbs stretching lazily over the sheets. “What? Give you immeasurable pleasure on a daily basis? Help you start your days on a high note?”

She turned to him with narrowed eyes. “ _No_ , make me _late._ ”

He snickered. “Oh, it’s just a thing I do.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and made for the loo. It didn’t surprise her when he joined her in the shower, but he wisely kept his hands to himself. They made quick work of getting ready, and when they stood in the living room, her hand gripping his elbow before they apparated, he bent his head towards her with a mischievous smile. 

“Hey, did you know there’s an election happening today?”

In spite of herself, Hermione began to laugh.

_

Election day passed in short moments of tension and long stretches of boredom that made Hermione want to burst out of her skin. 

After they cast their votes, they gathered at Theo’s manor, trying to distract each other from the radio programs they’d compulsively been following all day. The radio announcers took turns shouting information that made them sweat with apprehension.

Only to relax when something else gave them hope. It was exhausting to be so high-strung, and the uncertainty made them all want to burst out of their skins.

No one, it seemed, knew how this would turn out. But as the day dragged at snail’s pace, Hermione knew they were all preparing for the worse.

Minzy, overjoyed with a Manor to tend to all by herself and a lax Master who couldn't care less what did with her time, provided them with food and drinks that went mostly untouched until her lips quivered with hurt and they ate to appease her.

*

At two o’clock, Hermione left the room to take a stroll around the gardens. 

The fresh air barely helped soothe her nerves, and her mind still ran wild with possibilities, obsessing over worst-case scenarios. 

Her stomach was filled with nausea, and as she closed her eyes tightly and tried to take long, calming breaths, she threw another wish into the universe. 

She hoped for mercy.

*

At four o’clock, the only thing they were sure of was that nothing was certain.

The radio programs went on and on about the divided Wizarding World, how some people were terrified of letting go of the past while others wanted to barge into an uncertain future. 

Before the announcer could wax poetic about the highs and lows of democracy, Theo shut the radio off and poured them shots of firewhiskey. Draco entertained himself with his third cigarette of the day. 

“You want to know what I think?” said Theo, shaking off the sting of the shot.

“Not particularly,” said Draco.

“I think that if Robards wins after everything, the Wizarding World can fuck off.”

“A promising statement from the possible future Chief of Staff,” said Daphne, looking at him with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. 

*

At six o’clock, Hermione was pressed against a wall, her knees shaking as Draco made it impossible for her to think about anything other than the feeling of his tongue against her clit.

Her hips jerked, and her hands gripped at his soft hair, half wanting to pull him away because it was too much, and half wanting to pull him closer because it wasn’t nearly enough. 

Her mouth hung open and she squeezed her eyes shut in silent prayer.

And she hoped for mercy.

_

At eight o’clock, they left Nott Manor to wait for the announcement. 

It was the first time Hermione had seen Hestia Jones’s campaign headquarters in absolute silence. Even the nonstop sound of heels and boots clicking against the tiles was absent, and as she chanced a glance around, she wasn’t quite sure everyone was still breathing. 

She’d been a constant figure in the building over the past month, following Hestia like a shadow as she tried to siphon every bit of the witch’s knowledge about Wizarding law. Time was of the essence, and while Hestia’s glowing recommendation letter to Britain’s most renowned law apprenticeship had been appreciated, it didn’t mean Hermione would wait for it to start before delving head-first into her studies. 

“Can you believe that--” began Draco, only to be silenced by a chorus of _shush-es_. He looked around with a scowl on his face, but no one was paying him any attention, choosing to stare ahead instead. Hermione bit back a laugh and softly patted his hand. He bent down, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered. “Wanna-be politicians are so uptight.” 

Hermione wiggled her brows at him, and he clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter. 

Finally, the door to the offices burst open. Hestia’s Campaign Manager, Allegra, power-walked into the room with a sheaf of papers in her hand. As everyone stood up to greet her, her expression didn’t falter, and when she stopped in front of the group and cleared her throat, Hermione grabbed at Draco’s hand with terror and anticipation. 

“Despite the stress of a pending criminal investigation, Gawain Robards put up an admirable fight,” she began. From somewhere in the room, Hermione heard Theo’s familiar snicker. Allegra let out a sigh, and Hermione could swear she felt every single person’s mood plummet with disappointment. “We can’t deny that his history within the Ministry had a pull with the voters, and a part of our population still clings to the beliefs--”

“For Merlin’s sake, woman, get on with it,” snapped Draco. To their surprise, people began to whistle and shout in agreement. Allegra shot him a glare.

“As I was saying--” she said through gritted teeth. “Unfortunately...” she paused for a long beat, and Hermione opened her mouth to curse. “For _him,_ of course, that wasn’t enough--” 

It was impossible to hear her words through the roaring cheers that erupted in the room. 

In a flash, Hestia pulled Allegra into a hug. Her staff swarmed towards her, circling around the witches with excitement. Hermione and Draco hung back, watching as Theo and Daphne struggled to open a bottle of champagne. 

In the center of the room, wands shot up towards the ceiling, a rainbow kaleidoscope surging and flickering as people jumped up and down in synchronized joy. Hermione’s heart soared as cries and roars transformed into the beautiful soundtrack of celebration. 

Draco’s hand softly tugged at hers, and she let him guide her out of the room, no idea where they were going next. 

At that moment, it didn’t matter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this story was a challenge to me.
> 
> Fortunately, I had help along the way. My beta/editor/law-expert friend Charlotte (@jeparlepasfrancais) who answered my post on Reddit and embarked on this journey with me with the most useful tips, amazing suggestions, and who very selflessly donated her time to polish this story into its best shape.
> 
> Then, Valentine, whose voice I heard urging me on every time I doubted myself. And Giulia, whose support motivated me. And, of course, everyone who left a comment during all these months of posting. I would've given up on this otherwise, and I'm glad I didn't.
> 
> I hope that this story helped brighten your day at least once, I hope some of the messages translated to you, and I hope I did okay by these loved characters I borrowed. I really hope you enjoyed this conclusion. It isn't perfect, not everything was tied together with a pretty bow -- I wanted a story true to life. This is how I see life. 
> 
> That being said, we still have an epilogue coming, which I'm posting soon. I promise you'll get some answers on how some of the characters ended up (Rookwood, everyone?) 😉
> 
> Thank you so much for the time you invested in reading this. Thank you for the kindness you've shown me. I hope I see you at my next go at this writing thing.


	41. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eternal gratitude to my editor @jeparlepasfrancais for being a badass!

“Our scope was larger than I realized, which only made me that much more responsible. Yellow, yellow, gold, and ocher. We stopped. We held the field. We stood very still. Everyone needs a place. You need it for the moment you need it, then you bless it.” Detail of the Hayfield, Richard Siken

* * *

“Stop looking so smug, rookie,” snapped Weasel. 

His tone immediately sent a prickle of irritation traveling down Draco’s spine. He had half a mind to send a stinging hex the wanker’s way, but working alongside him had proven that it would only heighten the ginger’s misguided sense of power. 

Besides, it had been three years since Potter had the twisted and down-right evil idea of partnering them up. Weasley’s idea of ribbing was to continue to call him a rookie when Draco had already outperformed and outwitted him in every aspect. That Weasley didn’t notice the self-burn made the whole ordeal a thousand times funnier. 

When he didn’t answer, Weasley sputtered, “Are you deaf, rookie?”

“My ears don’t register stupidity,” deadpanned Draco, throwing a smirk over his shoulder.

Weasley didn’t have the time to answer before they walked into the room. The irritation fled his face, expertly hidden behind a mask of indifference. Draco could grudgingly admit it was impressive -- against all odds, Weasley wasn’t completely incompetent at his job. 

Draco didn’t bother hiding his own grin. Sitting behind the interrogation desk, waiting for them like a present on Christmas day, was Rookwood. His stint at Azkaban had aged him ten years instead of four, and there was a putrid smell oozing from his ragged clothes. Draco couldn’t be happier to see him.

Rookwood’s arrest had been the easiest in a drawn-out investigation that Draco had become involved in only half-way through, but if things went the way he planned -- and they would -- he’d be the one bringing it to an end. 

“Long time no see, sweet cheeks,” he chuckled, throwing a file down on the table before relaxing into the chair. Weasley chose to stand -- trying to look more intimidating, Draco was sure. “How has your vacation been?”

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” sneered Rookwood.

Draco rolled his eyes. “I thought years at Azkaban would extend your material. It only made you more unhinged. Figures,” he shrugged. “Are you ready to talk?”

He’d been having these sporadic meetings with Rookwood for over five months, and this push-and-pull was getting old. 

“Why would I talk with the way you’ve been treating me?”

“At least you’ve gotten more sensitive,” he drawled. “We’ve been over this. Go on with it,” he snapped.

“I’ll testify,” said Rookwood, through gritted teeth. 

Draco put a hand behind his ear. “Speak louder. I can’t hear you.”

“I will _fucking_ testify,” he growled. 

“Why the sudden change of mind?” asked Weasley, suspicion clinging to his voice.

It wasn’t exactly unwarranted. 

Rookwood had refused to testify against Greengrass despite the many deals they’d offered him over the years. But Draco wasn’t surprised. 

He knew something Weasley didn’t. 

“I had an epiphany,” answered Rookwood in a dry voice. 

“Big word,” quipped Weasley.

Draco shot him a sidelong glance and cracked open the file. He found the right page and slid it across the table, along with a quill. Slowly, he pointed to the bottom line, making sure Rookwood was following his movements. “Sign it.”

“The deal is the same?”

“No,” said Draco with a shrug. He heard Weasley let out a noise of confusion but brushed it off. 

Rookwood sat up angrily. “What the fuck, Malfoy?”

“Sit your arse down,” he snapped. Rookwood glared at him but returned to the chair, a vein in his forehead throbbing. “That deal was three weeks ago. I know a little bird sang in your ears, so don’t play dumb. I know why you’ve suddenly decided to speak.”

Rookwood’s nostrils flared. Then he said in a sly tone, “How’s your wife?”

“Delightful, thank you for asking,” he answered lazily. “You know I have Rowle’s pensieves. You know Greengrass isn’t getting you out no matter how many empty promises he made you over the years. Frankly, Rookwood, with the amount of proof I’ve gotten from that psychopath’s memories, I don’t even bloody need you to testify anymore. So be smart for once in your life and sign the fucking deal before I change my mind.” 

Behind him, Weasley shifted with uncertainty, but Draco’s gaze remained fixed on the wizard in front of him. He was ruffled and furious and the madness his eyes had always carried had somehow intensified. “What does the new detail entail?”

“A hundred years of house arrest. Pre-approved visitations allowed. You set a foot out of your estate and you’ll be back in an 8-to 9-meter cell before you can blink.”

Rookwood balked. “This is trading one prison for another.”

“Have you forgotten that you murdered Bart Hughman in cold blood while attempting to overtake the government? You’re lucky my _wife_ fought to end the Dementor’s kiss before you could get it.” Rookwood didn’t move. “I can take it back,” he said, reaching for the paper.

“Fuck you,” hissed Rookwood, snatching the paper from Draco’s hands. He grabbed the quill and quickly signed his name. It glowed lilac as a binding spell came to life. When the light ebbed, Draco grabbed the file and stood up. He saw Rookwood open his mouth, most likely to offer his version of a parting quip, but as if on cue, two junior Aurors entered the room and grabbed each of his arms. “I really hate you, Malfoy,” he said as Draco turned on his heel and left the room, Weasley hurriedly following after him.

When they were a safe distance from the interrogation room, his partner turned to him with an angry frown. “You bloody got Rowle’s Pensieve?” 

A smirk overtook his face. 

There was an extra bounce in his step, and he didn’t bother to hide his smile as they strode towards their desks, their colleagues clapping him in the back and yelling congratulations from all over the room. 

Draco’s eyes glinted with pride.

“Give Potter this file, will you? I have shit to do,” he said, pushing the file against Weasley’s chest before he registered what was happening. The ginger was too baffled to complain, and before he could give it back, Draco was heading towards the lift. “And shut your bloody mouth, Weasley. You’re gaping.”

He blocked the stinging hex just before it hit him. 

_

Her eyes were glued to a never-ending stack of legal documents. 

One of the many never-ending stacks.

There were documents covering every inch of her tiny, but comfortable office. 

After more than 36 months working as an Attorney of Magical Law, she had learned that every single day would be different. Unpredictability was the core of her job: even if she was working on the same case, new developments were always popping up, and nothing could be certain until the final decision was made -- and sometimes, not even then. 

But one thing remained consistent, no matter what happened: the legal documents. 

And she loved them. 

They were mind-numbing and stress-relieving, and she sometimes was so tense from everything else that she clung to them like some people clung to mindfulness coloring books. She loved them so much, she’d woken up an hour early that morning to get a head start on them. 

And she had found a good flow since then. She was happy to have a rare day where she didn't need to be anywhere else and could actually _try_ to catch up, but then her peace was shattered by her other perpetual nuisance.

One who was supposed to remain solely on her personal life where she could shut her front door on his face. But now he seemed intent on invading her work, too. 

“Please leave me alone,” groaned Hermione, unwilling to take her eyes off the document she was reading. Unfortunately, she’d stopped registering anything when he’d barged in five minutes ago.

She really needed to get Ginny to stop letting him in. Better yet, she needed to fire her. Ginny was the best of friends and a natural at motherhood, but hiring her after her early retirement had been awful decision-making on Hermione’s part. Ginny got a kick out of terrorizing rival attorneys, but was otherwise a lousy assistant. “I beg you,” she tried, once more.

A sigh, and then an odd, high pitched whine that made her wince. 

“I’m not asking you for much,” begged Theo. “Just back off for the next week? I’m stressed.”

“Have some damn self-respect.” She finally lifted her eyes to glare at him. “You’re the Minister’s Chief of Staff, for Merlin’s sake.”

“And you’re the nutcase filing a suit against the bloody Wizengamot,” he groaned. “Of course I’m whining, I have bloody nightmares about you.” 

Hermione gave him a flat look. “I’m not suing the Wizengamot--”

“You’re advocating for changes in its system. Yes, you’ve told me a thousand times. It doesn’t change the fact you’re annoying as hell and I’m sick of answering questions about you.”

“You shouldn’t be answering questions about _me,_ ” she answered. “You should be answering questions about my work.”

Theo rolled his eyes and finally, the facade dropped. He was a second away from spilling the real reason behind his visit. She set the document down. “Do you have scotch?”

“Troubles at home?” She raised a brow. He stood up and walked towards the cabinet where he knew she hid her emergency alcohol. 

He fished out a half-full bottle of a 12-year-old scotch Hermione was pretty sure they’d opened at midnight less than three days ago. 

There were a lot of emergencies in their line of work. 

“I talked to my wife last night, what do you think?” he snapped, then exhaled a long-suffering sigh. “After stalling for months I finally told her I’m running for Minister.” He poured two fingers of scotch into a crystal glass. “Any regular woman would be delighted, don’t you think? But _no_ , she got bloody mad and retaliated by ordering Minzy to hide my favorites socks. I’m not wearing any socks right now, Hermione!”

Hermione tried. She really tried, but she couldn’t suppress a giggle. Theo shot her an offended look and dropped back in the chair. “Theo, you told the Minister you’re trying to steal her job. What did you think was going to happen?”

“That she’d curse me out and then hate-shag me. She always loved competition, how do you think I got her to walk down that bloody aisle? I dared her _not_ to,” he hissed, as if she simply didn’t get it. She didn’t. Theo and Hestia had shockingly started dating months after her first marriage ended and finally tied the knot just four months back. Hermione’s brain was still processing, and she just hoped the Minister wouldn’t go through another divorce before it happened. “Wanna hear what she said?”

“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“She accused me of proposing just so I could ruin her reputation by forcing her to get a second divorce in less than two years. How dare she suggest I’d try to become Minister by employing such a shady tactic?”

Hermione studied him. “Did you?”

He threw his hands up. “I didn’t!” he exclaimed. “But it’s so devious that I kind of wish I had.”

When Theo sagged in his chair again, Hermione knew she had to be nice to him or he’d never leave. This display of dramatics aside, his marriage had changed him for the best -- he’d learned how to be serious when he needed to, and had relaxed more, if that were possible. “Just be patient, Nott. Once the shock wears off, she’ll get a kick out of the prospect of crushing you publicly. I don’t pretend to understand it, but she keeps you walking the moral line and you keep her from losing her mind to the job. She’s not leaving you.”

Finally, he gave her an ear-to-ear smile. “Why didn’t I marry _you?_ ”

“Because she doesn’t like the pink hair,” piped up a familiar voice. Hermione’s head whirled towards the door with an embarrassing enthusiasm that should’ve left ages ago but only seemed to increase with time. 

Draco was leaning against the door frame, a smirk on his face. He winked at her.

Her heart skipped a beat. 

“Everyone likes the pink hair,” snapped Theo, spinning around on the chair. “People wax poetic about the pink hair. The pink hair is me. I’m the pink hair. Why are you here?”

“Why are _you_ here?” retorted Draco, stepping further into the room. He pressed a kiss to Granger’s hair before sneering at his friend. “Go cry on someone else’s shoulder.”

“Pansy is representing Potter at a conference in bloody Romania. Daphne and Parvati come back from their honeymoon next week. Minzy took my socks as a token of her betrayal,” he complained. “I have no other shoulders.” 

Draco turned to Hermione with a knowing look. 

A silent conversation passed between them -- narrowed eyes and twitching brows and thinning lips until, finally, he turned to Theo. “Fine, you’re coming with us.”

_

“What the bloody hell is this?” exclaimed Theo. His head was tilted back, eyes squinting as he stared up at the contraption towering over him. 

The sun was shining brightly over the habitually grey London, and the hot summer air had just enough of a breeze to make the tree leaves sway.

Her hands were intertwined with Draco’s and she felt their silver rings clink against one another. When they’d first eloped, a month after his pseudo-proposal, looking at the ring had sent her spiraling into inconvenient daydreams. 

Now, four years of feeling its weight around her finger, it carried a constant reminder of belonging. She didn’t think of it often, but she always felt it. 

After a moment, Theo turned to them with a giddy but confused expression. “I’m scared.”

“It’s just the London Eye, you’ll be fine,” grunted Draco, using his free hand to roughly push Theo inside the cart. Hermione knew he secretly wanted to push him into the River Thames. 

“Why are we here?” whispered Theo. It was the middle of a weekday, but the London Eye still bustled with a mix of tourists and bored locals. 

There were two families and a teenage couple sharing their cart. A young boy giggled and yelped loudly as he ran around the room, his parents content to let him roam freely. 

“We always come here when we’re celebrating,” said Hermione. “We had our unofficial first date here.”

“You get more disgusting by the day. I’m out,” he groaned, turning his back to them and walking to the other side of the room. 

It was big enough he was far away while still being in their line of sight, and Hermione scoffed fondly as Draco threw an arm over her shoulder. She held onto his waist and let him guide her to one of the railings facing the view -- she remembered dragging him there the first time, so eager for his reaction but nervous to get it, babbling nonsense about Muggle royalty while hoping that he didn’t want to be anywhere but there. With her.

She didn’t have to wonder about it, anymore. 

“You go first.”

“Rookwood signed the deal,” he said. She glanced upwards, finding his eyes glimmering with pride. His happiness made it all worth it -- sleeping alone for days or weeks while he was away on missions, the spurts of blinding panic when she wasn’t sure he was safe. “Weasel really didn’t know I had the Pensieve. You should’ve seen the wanker’s face,” he chuckled, shaking his head. 

“Stop bullying him.”

His smile grew. “I’ve been letting him call me rookie for the past three years. He deserves it,” Hermione sighed. Harry’s partnering them up was meant to force them to tolerate, if not befriend, each other. It was an honest attempt at making their lives easier during the frequent get-togethers, but it had backfired spectacularly. As Hermione had told him it would. “We have everything we need to finally nail Greengrass. Four fucking years of this investigation, and he’ll end up exactly the way Robards did.”

Hermione shook her head. “It still shocks me that he was the last one to go down. Getting Robards seems like a walk in the park compared to him,” she exhaled. “Have you told Daphne?”

“I’m not going to interrupt her honeymoon for this,” he said.

Hermione let out a noise of agreement. Daphne had tried her best to keep a relationship with her family, even if they demanded effort that wasn’t reciprocated. Astoria had been the only one willing to try, but her husband was a thick-headed pureblood wizard that didn’t hide his contempt for Daphne’s choices and her recent marriage to Parvati. 

Choices were made. And Douglass was a hovering shadow who was about to be sent away, permanently. Their friend was happy and shone with the freedom she’d earned, and there was no reason to dampen until it was absolutely necessary. 

Hermione knew that heartbreak left scars. But eventually, those scars could heal -- visible when you pressed your fingers to the spot, but no longer painful. 

“She’ll be fine,” she said confidently, and Draco nodded. 

“Obviously. She’s now related to Padma. The dysfunctional-family-member hole in her heart is filled,” he said, laughing at his own words. Hermione snorted. “Now, your turn.”

“The new interns started this morning. I know that lobbying for criminal justice isn’t the most glamorous or high-paying job in the field, but few seemed more starry-eyed about _me_ than the firm’s work, so I’m happy this time around,” said Hermione enthusiastically. “Oh, and Zabini owled me that my interview about the reform proposal will come out tomorrow. I’m sure it’ll get me in trouble, but whatever. By the time we have our first hearing next month, every person in Wizarding Britain needs to know about this. ”

“And you know that even if the Minister won’t support the reform, her opposing candidate will,’” he added with a sly smile. Hermione sent him a mischievous look -- 

Hestia was her friend, and they carried very similar agendas in most areas, but she was still a former Wizengamot judge and reluctant to back Hermione’s more -- as the conservative wizards like to say -- _radical_ ideas. Theo, on the other hand, hadn’t a reluctant bone in his body. “That could work in my favor, yes.”

He squeezed the back of her neck. “You’re absolutely amazing, Granger. No question about it,” said Draco. “And this will work, you’ll see.”

Hermione beamed. His faith had been unwavering since she’d first gotten into her law program, and he’d been there, emotionally (and financially) supporting her when her firm had first struggled into existence. It hadn’t been easy -- she was fighting against a centuries-old system. The changes to the Wizengamot were being cemented brick by brick. And while it was scary not to see immediate changes, nothing could weaken her resolve to advocate for them. 

Her review of the Wizengamot judges was well underway. Many of them had been found corrupt. With success came the love of wealthy donors that allowed the firm financial room to breathe, and the growing number of employees was allowing _her_ to breathe. 

Theo’s years of putting in a good word had finally gotten her into one of the half-blood society’s most elite events. And, in a month, she’d begin campaigning for the reforms to the Wizengamot’s archaic chair selection. 

Eventually, each of these lone bricks would piece together into a structurally-sound building. Eventually, she would build up a new Wizarding World, brick by brick.

And she’d be there to see it. 

“Where did you go?” whispered Draco, softly nudging her out of her reverie. 

“I was just thinking,” she whispered back. “I’m really proud of us.” She turned towards him, tilting her head up slightly. He bent to meet her halfway, and their lips touched softly. 

“I’ve always been proud of you,” he smiled. “Thank you for getting me here.”

Hermione could say so much -- she hadn’t gotten him anywhere. 

Draco had done it all on his own. He had clawed his way out of his family’s clutches and risen to the place he was meant to be. 

He’d fought his way through Auror training and earned the respect of his peers and superiors, all of whom held long-cemented preconceived notions about him. 

He’d found a sense of peace with his mother that while frail, was still holding. 

Hermione hadn’t gotten him anywhere.

But she knew what he meant -- he would’ve gotten here without her, no matter how long it took. But he was happy he hadn’t had to. 

“Thank you for getting me here, too.”

Then, in a flurry of movement, the young boy that had been running around the cart slammed against Draco’s legs. He let go of Hermione to keep the kid from crashing into the floor, and before she could register it, he bent down to meet his height, a grin splitting his face.

“What are you doing, you little terror?” he said, softly tapping the boy’s nose, who let out a cheerful, innocent giggle in response. “Where is your mum?”

While Draco engaged the child in conversation, turning to smile reassuringly at the Muggle parents that were observing them from across the room, Hermione’s eyes remained fixated on her husband -- taking in the natural way that he lowered his voice to talk to the boy, the silly quips that left his mouth and earned him high-pitched giggles. 

In a second, Hermione saw her entire future open up in front of her like beams of sunlight. She couldn’t find the words to describe the feeling taking root inside of her. 

Then, her beautiful, smart, and insufferable husband told the kid goodbye, staring after him with something she couldn’t describe. It vanished when his gaze turned to hers, but it didn’t matter. 

She’d already seen everything she needed to see.

“What?” asked Draco.

“Nothing,” she muttered. Then, she shook her head. “Just everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this entire story. 
> 
> If you're still interested in my writing by the end of this, my new Dramione will be up sooner rather than later. You can find me on masterofinfinities @ tumblr until then! <3 hope you like it.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: everything belongs to J.K Rowling, I'm just playing around with her world.
> 
> Major note: I was thankfully made aware while writing this story that the premise of Hermione's work might come off as similar to the one in "The Nietzsche Classes" by Beringae. A much loved work in this fandom I have major respect for. As I haven't read the full story myself, I can assure you that any similarity is coincidental and it starts and ends in the premise that Hermione will be hosting meetings with former Death-Eaters :) My plan for this story is to focus on other aspects that I won't say now for risk of spoiling it! 
> 
> I hope you all liked it <3 any comments/kudos are much appreciated.


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